Two Georgia high school teachers who recently started their year online decided they would not let the changes of school this fall hold them — or their students — down.

So they made a hype video about it.

Audrianna Williams and Callie Evans are teachers at Monroe Comprehensive High School in Albany, Georgia, a 75,000-person town three hours north of Atlanta.

Williams and Evans, who started a tradition of back-to-school video several years ago, felt that some positive energy in 2020 would be more important than ever.

“We have been affected dramatically by COVID-19 here, and some of our students lost family members to the virus,” Williams, who teaches AP U.S. History and other social studies classes, told TODAY Parents.

Albany was hit particularly hard by COVID-19 last spring; at one point, it was fourth in the nation for cases per capita.

 

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We are in for a wild ride this school year, but let’s make the best of it! What better way to release all of the anxiety, doubts & fears of the school year than to dance & turn up What’s poppin’?! 20-21 School Year, Let’s get it! . . @overstreetmediaservices Makeup: @allurebyalex . Go check out @_coolcal vid! . #YourFavoriteTeacher #RapperTeacher #iteach #teachersofinstagram #NadaWay #ThatGreenThatGold #teachersfollowteachers #ellen #theshaderoom #whatspoppin #JackHarlow #WhatsPoppinChallenge

A post shared by Mrs. Williams (@audriwill_) on Aug 16, 2020 at 4:29pm PDT

“We wanted to be able to kind of pick their spirits up and grab their attention to get them excited about virtual learning,” she said. “We didn’t know what virtual learning was going to hold for for us, so we just wanted to get them motivated.”

 

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Tomorrow is the first day of virtual school !! With all the uncertainty these past few months have brought, I want to be able to get my students excited for what’s to come. You all will still be great despite what we’ve been through. Let’s have a great year !! Go check out my sister @audriwill_ video ! It’s DOPE ! Thank you to the @monroecheerleaders for dancing ! Love y’all !! : @overstreetmediaservices #ThirdYearTeacher #WhatsPoppin #iTeach #TeachersOfInstagram #TeachersFollowTeachers Lyrics: What’s poppin’ Mrs. Evans on the beat, so tap in You got options, but you better pass my class no floppin’ Gone log in, everyday, every morning, I’m watchin’ Yeah we virtual, and you know what’s up, so we ‘bout to take it up a notch and Monroe is the best, no comparing We at the top, all truth no daring CTAE, Fine Arts, and sports, man I want it all to my self no sharing COVID-19 had us stressed, but it’s nothing We gon overcome that’s facts no bluffing Wear your masks, wash your hands, keep a safe distance Cause I really thought that a pandemic said sum On the South, we do more than rap Doing all we can, just to get you out the trap Teaching, uplifting, motivating, and engaging Our students going straight to the top, no cap

A post shared by Mrs. Callie Evans (@_coolcal) on Aug 16, 2020 at 4:30pm PDT

The women aimed their message at students and fellow teachers alike.

“We were fearful of what could happen and nervous about trying to make everything virtual ourselves,” said Williams.

Their viral stardom has made quite an impression on their students. “That was literally all they talked about the first day of school,” said Evans. “They’re really excited, and I can see this excitement is not just going to be temporary. I’m hoping it lasts the entire year and shows them we can do creative things and keep this momentum going so they can still have a great year.”

Williams said she hopes the video encourages students and teachers to “be a rainbow in someone else’s cloud,” she said. “Regardless of everything we’re going through — even if you’re nervous, someone else might be more nervous than you are. Keep encouraging others and be a light.”

Evans said as far as she is concerned, virtual learning is “where it’s at. I love it,” she said.

“The first day you may have technical issues, but it’s rewarding to see your students really listening to you even while you’re through a computer screen and to see that they’re already grasping the information,” she said. “We don’t necessarily have to be face-to-face for our students to connect with us and for our students to actually get the information, so I don’t think it’s the teachers have anything to worry about.”

It was a running joke between Jamie Lee Hurtt and her 10-year-old daughter, Azariah, that Hurtt would become TikTok famous and have more followers than her daughter. Neither of them ever expected they would end up going viral together, or like this.

During the COVID-19 outbreak and subsequent quarantine, Hurtt, like many parents, found herself dabbling on the social media app TikTok. She has mostly posted videos of her learning popular dances, alone or with her children and fiancé, Joseph Mckinzie.

Hurtt and Mckinzie manage a full and blended house in El Dorado Hills, California, that includes Azariah, Mckinzie’s daughters, Leilani, 12, and Isabella, 10, and the couple’s two sons together, Joseph Jr., 2, and Jeremiah, 3 months.

They are a racially blended family, too: Hurtt is white, and Mckinzie’s father was black and his mother was white. Azariah’s father, who is no longer in her life, was black as well.

This week, Hurtt posted something different: a snippet of a personal and raw moment with her daughter. Azariah had asked her parents about news reports she had seen. She wanted to know why the National Guard was there and why some of their favorite restaurants were boarded up to prevent looting.

“We looked at each other like, ‘I think it’s time to have a conversation with her,'” Hurtt told TODAY Parents.

When Hurtt and Mckinzie told Azariah about George Floyd’s murder and the ensuing unrest, the girl broke down.

“I could die from the color of my skin,” she said through tears, in a moment Hurtt caught on video.

Mckinzie, visibly distressed and shaking his head, replies, “I’m sorry,” before embracing his stepdaughter in a hug.

“It’s sad that we even have to have the conversation with her, and it’s not like she’s naive… but she started bawling,” said Hurtt. “She’s not a very emotional person at all, so it killed us to see her crying.”

@jamieleehurttTikTok is trying to delete this vid! PLS LET THIS CONT. to go viral! BLACK LIVES MATTER!!! Harsh reality! SUPPORT##blacklivesmatter ##blackkidsmatter♬ original sound – jamieleehurtt

Hurtt initially took the video because she wanted to capture the moment for her family, she told TODAY Parents. “That moment wasn’t a TikTok. It wasn’t for anybody but our own household,” she said. “I just wanted to have the memory of that moment for us, for our family.”

She didn’t think to post the video on TikTok, she said, until early the next morning when she was up feeding her infant alone and scrolling through the app. After watching a similar video that made her cry, Hurtt was inspired to add the video to her page in the hopes of showing how racism affects children like her daughter.

In a matter of hours, the video went viral. It now has 1.2 million likes and 24,000 comments.

“We are fighting for you!!! I PROMISE YOU,” wrote TikTok user Brittany Leigh.

“This beautiful girl made my heart hurt. Sending prayers and good vibes to you,” wrote Naya Smith.

“I just had the same talk with my 10-year old daughter,” wrote Nichole Mcdonald. “That she could die because of the color of her skin. A child should never, ever, ever have to say this.”

“Look how many people you’ve touched,” Hurtt told Azariah. She and her daughter have been reading every comment together. It has helped Azariah to see that other people share her feelings, but the pain is still raw for them both, Hurtt said.

“How do we tell our children that everything is going to be OK and that she’ll be treated like everyone else? You just can’t.”

You might have seen a theme to many of my posts in the past year: I turned 40. For me, turning 40 was kind of a big deal. It’s a big deal because it is a turning point, at least for me, in perspective. But it has also been a turning point in my motherhood, because all my children are now on the planet. One of them is entering teenager territory. Another is following fast in his footsteps. And my youngest child, my baby, is turning 3 next week. Having two adolescents in the house and closing in on eliminating diapers from my Amazon Subscribe ’n Save list forever has me a little disconcerted, truth be told.

The latest addition to my midlife pivot? I took a job. I am now Editor-at-Large and a regular contributor for a relatively new site called The Mid. The Mid was launched with some very impressive, talented, creative people behind it, and I could not be prouder to be part of that team. It’s devoted to “life in the messy middle” – basically, my people, the GenX parents of now who are leaving their 30s and facing The Rest of Their Lives.

Are you in the Mid? I am. Let me tell you how I know:

1. I see commercials for Activia and I think, “I wonder if I need that?” and then I think, “Nahhhh.”

2. My (young) hairdresser high fives me when she only counts three gray hairs. I try to match her enthusiasm, but then I say, “Wait. Is it, like, an accomplishment to only have three gray hairs?” Because… that’s depressing.

3. I find myself squinting at the television or at menus, and the two competing thoughts duking it out in my head while I squint away are “Squinting causes wrinkles!” and “Why can’t I see that better?” and I am not sure which one worries me more.

4. I’m eating half as much as I ever did before I turned 40 and I’m not losing weight. Every Cadbury mini egg is like the silver bullet of belly fat death to me now. Boo.

5. When I go to Target, I walk right past Xhilaration and Mossimo and head straight to Merona. Merona is now where I live, and I am okay with that.

6. But I am NOT old enough for Chico’s yet, so just back away with your travel-friendly, unnaturally wrinkle-free drapey clothes, friend.

7. I love my husband, but I would pretty much knock him down with both elbows if either Adam Levine OR Jake from Sixteen Candles appeared anywhere in our vicinity.

8. My first thought when I look at shoes is, Are they comfortable?

9. I need anti-anxiety meds just to take phone calls I am not expecting. If my children’s school calls, I need them to tell me right away that nothing has happened to my kids. If my parents call, I need my mom to tell me right away that nothing is wrong with my dad. If my friends call out of the blue, I no longer suspect they are going to tell me they are pregnant; instead, I worry they are going to tell me they have cancer.

10. Songs like “Landslide” make me cry, not just because of my own aging or my children’s, but mostly because of my parents’.

11. I’m pretty sure that I am having a Netflix-fueled midlife crisis. First, I watched every Friends ever and relived my college days and twenties through the evolution of slipdresses, overalls, ribbed turtlenecks, and face frame haircuts. Then, I dove right into an orgy of Alias and all the Jennifer Garner (and, hi, Michael Vartan AND Bradley Cooper in the same show) awesomeness I could handle, all the while trying to pretend that Scandal isn’t totally ripping off Alias‘s mommy issue storylines. Now, Jennifer Garner and I both have baby bumps that are never going away. Jen, I feel you. It’s the Cadbury mini eggs, in my case (oh, and the babies. all the babies).

12. Instead of spending Sunday mornings hungover and watching Lifetime movies in bed all day like I did in my twenties, I spend Sunday mornings hoping When Harry Met Sally might be on TBS so I can recite every line, usually completely un-hungover. But let’s be real: I can never watch anything uninterrupted anymore.

13. I have embraced a skincare regimen and eyeliner, two practices I successfully avoided far longer than I probably should have, though I am not good at either.

14. I feel like Kevin Bacon and I could totally talk about mutual friends over a long dinner.

15. I love the Internet and technology and I even love social media, but it all still scares the crap out of me a bit.

16. My husband and I have running mental lists of movies our children need to see and books they need to read before they grow up. My list includes To Kill a Mockingbird and Dead Poets Society; his Tommy Boy and Fletch. I think we have covered all the bases.

17. I don’t care if he won an Oscar. He will always only ever be Jordan Catalano to me.

18. I used to worry about being a failure. Now I worry about Alzheimer’s and cancer, but not necessarily for myself.

19. I am continually surprised that my parents look older in person than they do in my head.

20. I no longer fantasize about looking like Hollywood actresses. Instead, I fantasize about being as funny or badass as Amy & Tina. But even if I am not, I am just glad they are.

21. High school and college reunions have ceased to be events where everyone is assessing each other or analyzing relative achievements or BMIs. Now, everyone seems genuinely just happy to see each other and be together. We have grown up. We no longer care about comparing. We are parents, and we get it now: life is hard, and we are lucky to still have the people who knew us when we were young to remind us of who we were. We cherish those people for being witnesses to our youth and for knowing parts of our stories we would otherwise forget.

22. How fast it is all going feels both energizing and paralyzing. I want to live in the Right Now, but I often feel swept up in all the details of daily life. I find comfort in knowing others who are in this place with me.

So if you too are in The Mid, come check us out (on Facebook, too!). And say hi. Because I don’t know about you, but I have decided that this life of mine is all about people and connections and kindred spirits, and I am always happy to find another person who says, “Me too.”

Today, the morning of my 40th birthday, my parents called my cell phone at 8:29 AM and sang “Happy Birthday” to my voice mail while I tried desperately to squeeze in a few more moments of sleep (and, maybe, denial). My husband had the 6-year-old and the 2-year-old in the nearby family room of our rental house in North Carolina, where we are on vacation. They came bursting in the room about fifteen minutes later, bearing gifts: rocks from the gem mine we visited yesterday and a new gold necklace.

Later in the day, there was a chocolate birthday cake ordered by my mom from a nearby bakery, the words “Happy, Happy Birthday POOPSIE” emblazoned across the chocolate frosting, almost as if the letters themselves couldn’t believe they were spelling something so ridiculous. “I had to spell ‘poopsie’ to the baker three times!” my mother exclaims when I thank her. She doesn’t seem to think it is strange at all to call a 40-year-old mother of four “Poopsie,” and I guess it’s not. My 6-year-old will likely receive a chocolate cake with “Happy Birthday BEN-BEN!” on it when he turns 40, if I have anything to do with it.

This, I suppose, is 40 – and as much as I did relate to parts of Judd Apatow’s movie by the same name, it’s different than I expected, and different even from the 39 I knew six months ago.

Forty is being thrilled but dubious when people don’t believe my age… and crushed and indignant when they do.

Forty is finally accepting that I need to have some kind of actual skincare routine, even if all I can muster is committing to washing my face every night. It’s spotting those tiny wrinkles right above my lip – wrinkles that, until now, I have associated with my grandmother – and making the dermatologist a regular castmember in my life as opposed to the guest star role she had in the past.

Forty is walking into a baby store and realizing that I know very few people that might have a need for sleep sacks or pacifier clips anytime soon. After over a decade in the “baby zone,” I have graduated; by this time next year, none of my children will even have a need for diapers. That’s exciting, a little sad, and a little terrifying, because public restrooms. Mostly exciting. But still. Still, and maybe always?

Forty is seeing the Fifty Shades of Grey trailer and simultaneously feeling complete revulsion and also, okay, maybe a niggling bit of curiosity, because are they really going to show that stuff? And Sonny Crockett’s daughter is the star? OMG. (Sidebar: could we consider a middle-age version starring Rob Lowe and, I don’t know, Cameron Diaz? I don’t really care who plays the female lead, if we’re being honest. Just Rob Lowe.)

Forty is having an account at caringbridge.org to follow all your friends’ cancer treatments. Yes, I said “friends,” plural. And you hate it, even as you are grateful for the chance to be on the journey with them and support them however you can from afar. Cancer is an asshole.

Forty is embracing Facebook, maybe Twitter, and even Instagram, but I’m sorry: Snapchat is just… no, Vine sounds like work, and Tumblr confuses me. Don’t even talk about Kik. I don’t even know how to pronounce that.

Forty is wondering if maybe it’s just too late in life to learn to apply eye liner correctly.

Forty is being too old to take crap from people anymore or to spend time with people I don’t enjoy. It’s easier by the minute to take my 2-year-old daughter’s advice and “let it gooooo.”

Forty is not too old to be a little bit upset that Adam Levine just got married.

Forty is wondering if the sweatpants with hearts on them are too “young” for me to wear in public. They are subdued hearts, in my defense. But maybe I shouldn’t wear them while I voluntarily watch a third episode of Good Luck Charlie, just to be safe.

Forty is accepting that kale and brussels sprouts might be here to stay, and committing to eating them, but only with enough cheese involved. Maybe.

Forty is, I’m sorry, still not always accepting my body for what it is. I wish I could be all rah-rah me and say that I love my body and all its foibles, or that I am amazed by it and how it produced my four babies. I would be lying if I said I don’t still beat myself up for eating too much, or the wrong things, or not exercising, because I am vain enough that I want to look and feel better than I do. But 40, for me, means that I am making strides in accepting myself as a true work in progress. I am finally believing, however tentatively, that my weight does not equal my worth to the world, no matter the message the world sends to me. Forty means that despite my issues, I still eat ice cream for dinner alongside my kids on a summer day, because screw it – life is short, and we only get so many summer days with our kids to eat ice cream for dinner.

Forty is, unfortunately, having a designated funeral dress and wearing it this summer to say goodbye to my 38-year-old sister-in-law, an amazing person, wife, and mother of one toddler son. It’s learning that we don’t just need “Move a Body” Friends – the kind who would help us move a body, no questions asked – but also friends who will speak over our own bodies, should that terrible need arise. We need friends who will remember us so vividly, and with such obvious love and understanding, that the children we leave behind might know their mothers even so. Forty is knowing, viscerally, that our friends, our people, are who create the stories of our lives with us, and who will tell those stories in our absence. It is knowing that our connections to other people are all we have, in the end. They are what makes us alive, and what keep us alive, and we must make them a priority.

But 40 is also realizing that most of us are lucky enough to have so much more time left. It’s not the “big dead end” that Sally bemoaned in When Harry Met Sally; it’s the beginning of another chapter of life, and it’s a good one. At 40, I know who I am, I know what and whom I love, and I am not afraid to go after it. So at 40, the world is even more mine for the taking than it was when I was 20, and I know so much better what to do with it.

Forty is realizing that aging is not  something to mourn nor something to endure. Aging is a privilege, full stop. All I care about is my time on earth with my people. I might have the tiny wrinkles. I might be too old for pop stars. I might have to start thinking about my own mortality and, worse, that of the people I love. But in any case – no matter what – I still win, because I am here, and as long as I am, anything can happen. My friends tell me that forty is fabulous. I can’t help but agree, and I don’t need Jake Ryan showing up with a birthday cake to believe it. I’m just as happy to have my almost-40-year-old husband, my perfectly imperfect children, and a birthday cake with “POOPSIE” written on it instead.

This post first appeared on Scary Mommy. 

It’s the legs that really kill me.

At twelve, my oldest son’s face is still his face. Though his baby cheeks have hollowed and he now stands at my height, pointedly meeting my gaze when we argue, his eyes betray him every time: they still give me the face of the same baby I held in my arms twelve years ago, when I wondered for the first full year of his life if they would really stay blue. They did.

But not much else has remained the same about that baby from so long ago (and yet yesterday?) now, especially his legs. His stocky toddler thighs, the ones that curled into my body so easily when we still napped together daily, are gone. They have grown, beanstalk-style, until I find myself staring at them sometimes in bewilderment. They are not the legs of a child. These are the legs of a young man: long and lanky, increasingly furry, stretching out in front of him, capped by knobby knees I associate with baby horses or giraffes. I can’t believe those are the legs of my first baby.

Each age possesses its own magic, but twelve seems to shine a little more brightly than most to me. Twelve is a bridge between childhood and the land of teenagers, a place of juxtaposition and paradox. He still kind of wants to trick-or-treat, but he doesn’t necessarily want to dress up in a costume. He peruses the Lego catalog, but he doesn’t find anything he wants to buy with the same sense of urgency and enthusiasm he had even last year. He’s not interested in the pumpkin patch, but he likes to help get the decorations out of the attic. He doesn’t want to know the lyrics to “Let It Go,” but he does… along with the words to “All About That Bass.”

Twelve is both breaking my heart and healing it. After a colicky babyhood and a stubborn, incredibly willful toddlerhood, this child has blossomed into a full grown person, someone who reads faster than I do, who has hopes and dreams and goals of his own, who enjoys electrical engineering and marine biology and makes his own literary allusions that delight me when I catch them. He is a promise fulfilled: everything I ever hoped for, better than I ever imagined, a dream in flesh and Gap button-downs. He surprises me, sometimes, with unexpected kindness. Though everything is mortifying to Twelve, he somehow doesn’t mind telling me he loves me in public. He’ll still hold my hand. I could not have called this when he was 3 and 4 years old and a holy terror, but I am relieved and, yes, a little shocked that he has actually turned out to be pretty reasonable and cooperative most of the time.

But he can also sometimes be thoroughly exasperating. He can be irresponsible. Arrogant. Careless. He still does not understand consequences; he still doesn’t fear the world, for better or worse. He’s the same child who once jumped into the deep end of the pool before he could swim, who had to be rescued by a lifeguard at the beach because he did not believe a riptide could be stronger than he was, who ran into a tree trying to catch a frisbee because he didn’t look ahead. He believes, quite confidently, that he is smarter than we are. He scares me, because he is, more than ever, my heart walking around outside my body… only now, that heart walks on those long legs, with wizened eyes but without any life experience yet to inform his choices.

Twelve is PG-13 movies, absolutely mandatory deodorant, science fair projects, ear buds. Twelve wears ironic T-shirts (“The Periodic Table of Minecraft”) and shorts he outgrows almost before we can pull the tags off of them, sneakers larger than my own that wait to trip me on my way to the kitchen, socks I cannot keep white. Twelve is one-syllable answers and the occasional gift of a precocious turn of phrase, baby talk for his little sister and “‘Sup?” for his friends. It’s a lone pimple marring an otherwise still smooth and flawless face and long, careful fingers that belie the man he is becoming all too quickly.

Twelve is, for us, seventh grade. It is in all ways the middle: of middle school, of puberty, of “growing up.” I can see now the heartache that will come, slowly but surely. I don’t know all his friends, and I don’t know if he likes anyone in particular yet, but I know he will, and it won’t always end well. Similarly, I know other disappointments and other kinds of heartbreak are lying in wait, just out of sight. And there’s nothing at all I can do about it but love him and encourage him and hope that when the inevitable happens, he brushes himself off and keeps on the path that is right for him, probably while I hold my breath as close by as he will allow.

In many ways, I feel like I might be stepping gingerly into the hardest part of parenting: the actively letting go, the small glimpses of independence and shows of faith that will soon lead to driver’s licenses and Saturday nights out and college applications and internships and summers abroad and goodbyes that aren’t temporary. It’s not easy to manage the care and keeping of little people; the physical and emotional components of parenting are overwhelming when our children are young. But as thrilling as it is – and it is thrilling – to see my child grow up, healthy and ready to take on the world, my heart is heavy with the knowledge that being a good parent to him now is increasingly harder stuff than diaper changes or first grade homework. Bubble wrapping him would be easier, but it would be wrong.

Luckily, when I need a hug, he gives me one willingly. His arms now wrap all the way around me, his cheek next to mine, his feet on the ground. I hope those crazy legs of his hold him steady and strong when he walks away from me someday. I know now that it is my job to make sure they do.

This is the second installment in the This Is Adolescence series. Read the rest of the series below:

Lindsey Mead wrote about the age of Eleven.

Bethany Meyer wrote about the age of Thirteen. 

Catherine Newman wrote about the age of Fourteen.

Jessica Lahey wrote about the age of Fifteen.

Marcelle Soviero wrote about the age of Sixteen.

Shannon Duffy wrote about the age of Seventeen.

Lisa Heffernan wrote about the age of Eighteen.

But just because my childhood was conventional, at least on the surface, doesn’t mean it was boring. Nor does it mean that my parents were not layered and complicated people. Now that I am a parent myself, I see how much that is true. I feel lucky to have had the parents I did and completely convinced that they not only influenced who I am, but also how I parent my own four children.

So in honor of Mother’s Day this weekend, here are five “rules” my own generous, loving, and sometimes completely crazy mom taught me to break:

1. Television is not poisonous.

You could say my parents like television: I grew up in a household that boasted 22 – yes, thats twenty-two – television sets. In fact, I had cable television in my bedroom from the time I could talk. I watched so much television with my parents when I was a child that some of my earliest memories are of Johnny Carson (I was also an insomniac) and St. Elsewhere. In fact, some of the first writing I ever attempted was when I used some of my gray handwriting paper – the kind with aqua blue dashes across the page to help you keep your letters straight? – to write my own Cheers scripts when I was in third grade. It is immensely comforting to me now to remind myself that I grew up on a steady diet of movies and television and was still an excellent student who graduated with a degree in English from an Ivy League university. I say that not to boast, but to reassure: television did not ruin me. Even possibly inappropriate television did not lead me astray or rot my brain. So when my kids insist on watching Spongebob, I try to remember that it’s not going to kill them. Then I make them turn down the volume, because it might kill me.

2. Don’t always do the rational thing.

My mom loved (and continues to love) Elvis Presley. Like, she was one of those fans. When she heard of his death on the radio, she packed a bag, dropped me at the babysitter’s house, and caught a flight to Memphis, because of course she went to his funeral. Of course she did. She called my father from the Memphis airport to tell him where she was and to pick me up on his way home from work. Oh, and she was pregnant, too. She once drove me and my friend five hours from Vermont to Montreal just so we could see Canada, eat dinner, turn around, and go home. She regularly drives to the beach just to put her toes in the sand, because it is her favorite place. And once, she and I drove across the country using only the USA Today weather map as our guide. My mom’s bold approach influences how I show the world to my own children. She taught me not to be afraid and not to let anything stop me from having an adventure, and that is how I am trying to raise my children too. This is not a dress rehearsal, after all.

3. Show your heart.

She loves Elvis and the beach, but I can list so many other things that my mother loves dearly: chocolate of all kinds, anything white eyelet or lace, buttercream frosting, Rod Stewart, Christmas trees, white daisies, French memo boards, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, the Florida Gators, unsweetened ice tea, American Idol, gummy peach rings, Les Miserables, guacamole. My mom loves big and large. Because she is so open about what she loves, I feel like she allows herself to be really known, which is in itself a gift. I try to share the things I love with my children too, to let them know who I am and what inspires me, thrills me, and comforts me. If they can someday list the things I love – the quirks and passions that make me who I am – I will know that I succeeded in creating a connection with them that will, I hope, teach them to how to open up to others too.

4. Make a fool of yourself.

When I was growing up, if anyone turned on Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock ‘n’ Roll” or Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?”, my mom would instantly bust out into full-on dance moves… no matter where we were. As recently as this past winter, she jumped on a stage and danced with dueling pianos at an event, stone cold sober. My mom is not afraid. She doesn’t jump out of airplanes or fight crime in the streets, but in her own way, my mom performs acts of bravery: she is not afraid to look crazy or to be vulnerable, and in the process, she allows all around her to feel more at ease and to have more fun. I can, perhaps, be too guarded sometimes, or too afraid to embarrass myself. But my mom has been a role model when it comes to reminding me of the importance of vulnerability. I sometimes marvel at my children’s lack of self-consciousness, and I push past my own insecurities to encourage them to be who they are, always. My mom has shown me, repeatedly, that letting our guards down is what builds connections to other people.

5. Talk to strangers.

My mom could talk to a tree stump and know its life story in an hour. She is relentlessly interested in other people, she’s endlessly empathetic, and she genuinely cares about everyone. More than once, I have had to stop her, mid-elaborate, emotional story, and ask her whose story she is telling me. Inevitably, it is the story of her hairdresser, or her hairdresser’s child, or the cashier at Best Buy, or my sister-in-law’s best friend’s neighbor. I’ll be honest: I don’t have my mother’s patience, and I sometimes feel too overwhelmed with my own stuff to get involved with every stranger I meet on the street. But what my mom demonstrates with her intense curiosity about other people, and what I hope to do as a mother as well, is to convey the message that every person is worthy of our time and our interest, that every person has a story. We only need to take the time to listen to those stories to learn from the people with which we share our communities, our schools, our cities, and our planet.

Looking at this list, I see a common theme: my mother refuses to let fear hold her back. She was a parent who didn’t wring her hands over screen time, she makes things happen, she loves fiercely and openly, she dances no matter who is watching, and she lets people know her and wants to know them. Do we agree on everything? Yeah, that’s a big no. Do I believe her when she says I “just potty-trained myself” and she therefore does not understand why I think it’s so hard? Not so much. Despite our differences, I am aware now more than ever, as a mother and an almost-40 year old, just how much she has taught me that I want to teach my children too.

But before they can ask, the answer is no, kids. You cannot have cable television in your bedrooms.

This post originally appeared on the Huffington Post as part of their Mother’s Day series in May 2014.

I can honestly say that sending my oldest child to middle school last fall was one of the more daunting tasks I have encountered as a mother. I know, I know – kids survive sixth grade every day, I’m being dramatic and ridiculous, and I need to get over myself already. But since the day he was born, I was kind of dreading sending him to middle school. I don’t think I speak for myself alone when I say middle school was pretty much a parade of horribles, what with the whole suddenly needing a bra, braces, zit cream, and maxi pads, the cliques and popularity and broken heart nonsense, and the endless insecurity that pretty much defined my life for those three years from grades 6-8.

Even with all that, I was lucky, because I was very much not cool, but also not the least cool. That seemed to limit the extent of my harrowing middle school experiences. However, since becoming a parent, all I have heard about is how now, middle school is basically one big, scary orgy: the bathrooms designated for oral sex, the dances known for their pot busts, the school buses the equivalent of sending your kid to a county men’s prison naked. My own child came home from his first day of middle school and told me that he “now knows the inspiration for Guns N’ Roses’ ‘Welcome to the Jungle.'” Gulp.

The good news is, his impression much improved after that first day, and now that we are at the end of his first year of middle school and it is National Teacher Appreciation Week, I have a few things I would like to say to his sixth grade teachers:

I don’t know you, but I still appreciate you. 

This is our first year that I have a child who has eight different teachers each semester, and because of his three younger siblings, I haven’t been able to get involved at the school. It’s the first time I have ever not known my child’s teachers personally; I couldn’t pick a few of them out of a police line-up if I had to. I’m sure this is why most middle and high school teachers get very few individual Teacher Appreciation Week gifts – it’s overwhelming to buy for eight teachers, especially if you don’t know them at all. But I want you to know that although I don’t necessarily know what you look like, I am beholden to you for taking care of my first baby boy every day he is in your classroom. He’s had a year better than I could ever have imagined, and I know it is in large part due to you.

I might not have realized until this year how important you are. 

This year, my child was introduced to Shakespeare. He built a manta ray by himself out of felt and pipe cleaners. He began to learn algebra. He researched and gave his first speeches and won his first debates. He built a motor. He learned how to play volleyball (and he loves it). He realized he has a knack and a love for languages. I am not sure that I remembered how much middle school changes the game in terms of learning and moving on to subjects that challenge, enrich, and push students toward the futures of their educations. I do know how important the teacher is who introduces you to Shakespeare, and since he doesn’t hate it, I think you won. My English major heart loves you for it.

I think you are a badass for doing this job.

As a parent of two tweens, I don’t want to imagine having a career that sent me straight into the jaw of the beast – that is, into a classroom surrounded by hordes of their hormonal selves – every day of my working life. Don’t get me wrong; I know the age has its merits, and the kids are interesting character studies, and maybe the job is even fulfilling on some days. But… whew. Add in the inequity of your paycheck in comparison to the importance and the workload involved, and you are pretty much my heroes. I truly believe that Superman wears pajamas with the faces of middle school teachers on them.

Today, I sent in a cake to add to a PTA-sponsored buffet in honor of the week. I didn’t have the time or wherewithal to sign my name on it or to let any of you know it was from me and my son. But maybe that is better – I hope that the anonymity of the gift made you feel loved and appreciated by more people. Like some other holidays I know (cough*Mother’sDay*cough), it almost seems like we shouldn’t need a specially-designated week to appreciate teachers. But I am glad we do, if only to give me the chance to pause and make a point of saying thank you. I know what you do is not easy, and it’s one of those jobs that if you do it badly, everyone speaks up. If you do it well, less do.

This is my way of speaking up.

This post first appeared on Scary Mommy.

Last January, Lindsey Mead came to me with her idea to gather ten writers to write about the different ages of childhood, from one-year-old toddlers to ten-year-old tweens. We found eight amazing writers to help us in this endeavor, and the results were “This Is Childhood.”

Last summer, the editors of the esteemed Brain, Child magazine, Marcelle Soviero and Randi Olin, came to us with the idea of making the essays a book. They have since used the essays as a launching pad for a sort of journal of childhood where parents can write their own observations about the highlights of each age. It’s a little like a “baby book,” except it’s about our babies beyond their babyhoods.

We are beyond to excited that today, Brain, Child is launching the book, and you can order it right HERE.

Not only will you get all the essays from our series, written by Aidan Donnelley Rowley, Kristen Levithan, Nina Badzin, Galit Breen, Bethany Meyer, Tracy Morrison, Amanda Magee, Denise Ullem, Lindsey Mead, and myself — but you will also have a journal to record your own memories of these special, quirky, exasperating, and magical ages. We were also especially honored to have my friend and mentor, Yahoo’s Senior National Correspondent Lisa Belkin, write the book’s introduction for us.

Thank you so much in advance for supporting our labor of love. I can’t wait for you to see it!

“I want a pet of my own,” 9-year-old Charlie stated one morning over his frozen waffle. I raised an eyebrow and tipped my head toward the giant designer puppy sitting in the corner of the room, remnants of someone’s Boba Fett figure still stuck in the hair on his chin. “No, I want something that is just mine,” Charlie clarified, shaking his head. “Like a gerbil, or a hamster.”

I groaned. Over the years, as we added one small human being after another to our family until we had a grand total of four to feed, bathe, and parent, we had attempted a variety of pets: parakeets that bit hard and shed seed and feathers everywhere; aquatic African frogs we forgot to feed; hermit crabs we rarely laid eyes on (because they ate each other, OMG); and countless fish. So very many fish. Please note: only parents hoping to teach their children about death should ever try to keep fish as pets.

A quick learner, I finally declared that we never again would have pets that required tanks or cages. I have a hard enough time keeping the children alive and bathed to add cages to the household responsibilities.

Now, there are many “rules” of parenting, but perhaps one of the most important is that one must never make “rules.” Inevitably, you will break your own rule, every single time. Because when your 9-year-old middle son is the most empathetic child you know and wears his big heart on his sleeve, worries too much, and is painfully sensitive to the world in a way that makes him capable of both great sadness and deep love and joy on a daily basis, and that same son asks you for a pet of his own that will love him back?

You become a rat owner.

Actually, a two-rat owner.

I begrudgingly did my research on small animals, knowing that a pet of his own would be valuable to Charlie. We were looking for a pet that would be social, that could love a certain emotional middle child back, maybe, and would want to be held. We needed an animal that wouldn’t be incredibly hard to care for and one that would not aggravate my allergies. After a period of denial, I finally acknowledged that — gulp — rats are widely renowned to be remarkable, social, intelligent pets. Of all the options, they seemed to be, crazy as it sounded, my best bet. So I did what any mom would do (right?): I found a rat breeder on Craigslist. Yes, these actually exist. A few months later, Charlie and I drove two hours to pick up the already-beloved babies from the breeder, who had been meticulous and thorough in her notes and recommendations for cages (size matters!) and bedding (aspen shavings only!) and toys (avoid painted wood!).

I’m not sure what I expected a Craigslist rat breeder to look like. I did not expect to find her to be a 19-year-old community college student with a nose ring living with her parents, a sweet younger brother, and about a bajillion rats. When we arrived to pick up Charlie’s new pets, the breeder’s mother had dinner on the stove, and her father was reading the paper in a nearby recliner. I looked down at the enormous cage in the den full of rats and rat babies, and all I could think was that I am not, in reality, the biggest pushover of a parent in the world after all.

Charlie promptly named his new pets Ginger and Luna, and he held them on his lap for the two hour car trip home. Ginger and Luna love lavender-scented cage liner, multi-grain Cheerios, and cardboard tubes. Charlie just loves Ginger and Luna.

When I posted the picture of Charlie with the rats on Facebook that evening, I received a million comments from my friends that expressed everything from disgust to shock to genuine admiration for me as a mother. “You are a nicer mom than I am,” several of them intoned. But I don’t think I am. The funny thing about being a mother, I have found, is that it enables you to do things you never knew you could. Being a mom means finding strength and fortitude beyond a normal person’s resources. For me, it has meant that I can show affection to large rodents with red eyes and very long tails just because it makes my baby happy. The twentysomething me that lived in Manhattan apartments still can’t believe I willingly and purposely brought rats into my home, but the thirty something mom version of me totally gets it.

I am not thrilled to be a pet rat owner. I still don’t adore cleaning a cage, even with my son’s help, and I’ll never be a fangirl of rodents. I’m just as twitchy about having rats in my house as the next person would be. But the rats thrill Charlie, and Charlie is a child who feels the full weight of the world every day — much more so than my other children do. Charlie needed these rats. It was as simple as that. This is what love is, folks: pet rat ownership.

Thankfully, rats only live about three years. So I have that going for me.

This post originally appeared on Scary Mommy.

My friend, the stealthily witty and sometimes devastatingly candid Jamie Krug, tapped me to participate in a blog tour exploring our writing process. I said yes without even seeing the questions, and once I saw them, I was a little intimidated. The past few months, I have felt quiet. I’ve sort of been in the midst of what I call “The Nothing,” a reference (of course!) to The Neverending Story, which I watched only about a million times as a child. Lost in the sea of everyday life and a freelance project that has dragged on forever, I have felt like I am a dry sponge, sapped of my energy and my writing juice. Still, I remind myself, I have been a writer — or at least a person who writes — my whole life. That doesn’t change.

Without further ado…

1. What am I working on?

Everything and nothing. I am working on life at the moment, as we have finished our spring break and I am now on the fast descent into Worst End of School Year Mom Ever Status. I don’t have a singular project I am working on for myself, but like most writers, I think, I can’t help but always be writing even in the middle of my life. I’m always noticing details, words, moments, and sensations that might fuel writing later. In the meantime, I am sporadically publishing in my usual places, like HuffPost Parents and Scary Mommy. I also just wrote a post for Mamalode, which is a new relationship for me and very exciting, as I respect the writing there. I’m going to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop next week, and I’m really hoping I will leave inspired and energized. When I was in elementary and middle school, I stole my mom’s copies of Erma’s books and read them over and over again. She has definitely been a big influence on me, and I am looking forward to spending time around others who feel the same way.

2. How does my writing differ from others of its genre?

That’s the million dollar question for me. Writing about parenting is the new black. One of the thoughts that runs through my head daily — and one that, I know, beckons The Nothing I mentioned above — is the thought that my writing is just like so many others’, and everything has already been written. I keep on not because I think I have something unique to say, but because writing is the only way of processing this experience that makes sense to me, and writing online makes me feel less alone in the journey. I think that I have a relatable voice, and that is one of my biggest strengths as a writer. However, I am not sure that sets me apart. I guess all I can say is that I am writing my own experience, and no experience is exactly the same.

3. Why do I write what I do?

I write about myself and my experience as a woman at this moment in time and in this particular place, and that experience is shaped completely through my role as a mother. Parenting has become such a loaded writing topic, full of navel-gazing and hair-splitting and Bossy McBossiness and Judgey McJudgeypants. I wish I could write about, say, pop culture (another love of mine) and be happy in that space alone and not actually open myself and my family up to the scrutiny of all the people everywhere. The truth is that while I can be inordinately and maybe unjustifiably passionate about pop culture, the experience of parenting and the process of “growing up” — when done both by my children and myself — is what changes me and moves me and makes me want to write, so that is what I write about. That might evolve as I do. I just don’t know.

4. How does my writing process work?

“Process” is a strong word for what I have. As I mentioned above, I am always noticing. That, I think, is the biggest part of my “process.” Without the details and sensations and words that I take note of and remember, my writing does not exist. It starts in my head, where all these “notes” knock around and stick with me until I finally sit down and release them. When I am writing something more structured or prescribed, I am not much more formal about my process, I am afraid. My life is about winging it, and so far, that has applied to my writing, too. Some nights, I escape to Starbucks and write there, a soundtrack of songs that are important to me floating through my earbuds (the Indigo Girls, Paul Simon, Billy Joel). But most of the time, I’m writing in my bed, my laptop perched on my knees, while children run amok through my bedroom and my husband watches procedural TV shows ad nauseam. When a post is burning in my brain, it doesn’t matter — I can focus amidst the chaos. I have tried getting up insanely early to start a writing “habit,” like so many of my writer friends (including Jamie!). But then I need a nap by 10 am, which doesn’t work in my life or with my toddler. I also stay up past my bedtime many nights and write once the house is finally quiet and settled. That seems to be when my brain allows me to access the areas not directly related to diapers, first grade homework, and laundry. Bottom line: my “process” is not really a process, but it mostly works for me. I think I am afraid to mess with that.

Part of the blog hop is asking two more writers to answer these questions. I immediately thought of Kristin Shaw of Two Cannoli, a woman that I adore both as a writer and a friend. Kristin is a rare, genuinely wonderful soul and in the words of my favorite Anne of Green Gables, a kindred spirit. She writes beautiful, emotional essays about relationships on her blog and elsewhere, and she somehow does it while working part-time and and acting as a wife, mother, and active community member in Austin. Currently, she’s producing Listen to Your Mother in Austin, which is a perfect role for her because she is a great connector of writers and women and makes everyone feel safe and welcome to share their own gifts.

I am also excited that Anna Whiston-Donaldson of An Inch of Gray accepted my invitation to write about her own process. I first heard of Anna when The Mom Stays in the Picture ran on the Huffington Post and she submitted a picture of herself with her children, Jack and Margaret. It was the last picture she had with both her children, as Jack passed away soon after the picture was taken in a terrible accident. I have immense respect for Anna and the way she has processed her grief, sometimes through writing, sometimes through acts of charity. She has strength and grace that awe me. I am curious to know how she writes about topics that I cannot imagine confronting and writing. Her writing is truly a gift.

Kristin and Anna will post their own answers next Monday on their own blogs. In the meantime, be sure to also check out my friend Lindsey Mead’s answers to the same questions today at A Design So Vast. Lindsey is an incredible writer, and I am eager to peek inside her process!