Penned but not Published

Sidetrack: Teaching Advice

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Fri, 20 Mar 2026 14:25:00 +0000

Once upon a time I was a student teacher. And before that, a mere student. When I finally decided to pursue teaching, I had a professor who took me under his wing and offered me a student teaching job at one of the most prestigious high schools in America…It's the oldest. Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, John Quincy Adams, countless others spent their teen years there preparing for they knew not what, a country they could barely imagine, preparing for Harvard, a divinity school at the time and I was chosen to learn to teach here, in the halls of greatness.

And yet, I was not great.This came as a colossal surprise to me. I had watched my dad teach for over 20 years at that time (over 30 before he retired) and although his work seemed grueling- his ideas, lesson plans and general classroom management seemed more an extension of his magnanimous personality and great faith rather than a skill honed by the aforementioned 20 years.

I was wrong. Skill was indeed involved and wisdom. And as the bard was wont to say, “Therein lies the rub.” How does one attain wisdom? And on a deadline too.

My professor gave me great advice, so much advice.

“That was a disaster, don't try and force it.”

“They won’t respect you if you speak to them like that.”

“Don’t let them think that they are in charge or can manipulate you.”

And yet even with all this feedback, and examples, these nudgings, corrections, exhortations and principles of pedagogy I found myself one Friday afternoon ready to quit.

I did not see myself getting any better.

I was exhausted and frustrated.

I boarded the inbound green line T and plopped down on the green line next to my friend Kat. I put my head in my hands. “I can’t do it.”

“You can,” she encouraged me, “you are doing it.”

“No, I can’t! He is never happy with me. I am too strict, too lax, my standards unreasonable, my assignments too juvenile. I cannot get it right and its killing me!”

She looked at me and reminded me that perfectionism is the death of many a great teacher because we cannot control all the variables. Then, it was her stop and I was left alone on the lurching train.

I sat there, pondering all this advice, all this truth and yet none of it helping me right then and there. I simply could not make sense of it. Nor would it for another four or five years.

But I did not give up teaching. I’m honestly not sure why. Stubborn, I guess.

Finally, one day, when I least expected it, it made sense. All of it. ALL of the advice was sound. BUT it was advice only, it was not a rule of law, not an unbreakable truth. I could not apply it in every situation. It was all good but I had to know when to use it. I had to have my own brain, my own experiences and trust my own gut as a teacher to know when to hold the line and when to extend grace, to determine if it was a day to check boxes and meet objectives no matter the objections or to stop and listen to the objections, seeing them as teachable moments.

I have gotten it wrong….a lot. Maybe more than I’ve gotten it right and the hard part about teaching, and parenting, and loving and just plain living to be honest: we sometimes don’t even know if we did the best thing, we merely did the best we could in that moment. But, ahh for the times you get it right, and you see the dawning of understanding on a student’s face. Those moments are not about advice or perfect execution of a pedagogical principle. Those moments are pure grace.

Working Backwards

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Tue, 17 Mar 2026 03:02:00 +0000

I took copious notes when I arrived here. Like an anthropologist intent on setting down every experience and interaction. And like every good novel about an obsessive compulsive note taker devoted to detailing with precision events that can never be replicated…the notes have ... .of course… been lost, ruined, taken in a figurative fire that is known in many circles as "Built in obsolescence." My angst over it is fairly
intense. How can I possibly began to explain the past 7 years? (note photos)

AND yet. Maybe the work was in the writing.

The changes on every front were so monumental that perhaps the only or best way I could deal with the absolute unknowns surrounding our housing, money, and future was to chronicle the best way I knew possible.

And perhaps looking back after five years I can see not every tree that meant so much at that time in my life, but at least the forest that we navigated and traversed.

So, with the disclaimer, I hope we all realize there will be plot gaps, questions, random thoughts per usual. Still, as is the watchword on this endeavor, “I’m just going to write because I cannot help it.”- Charlotte Bronte (still and always).

Restart (A truly great YA novel if you haven't read it)

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Wed, 04 Mar 2026 03:25:00 +0000

At least three major things have happened since I wrote that last piece…”Never…” possibly 2-300 more but I will try to be brief.

I had the baby for one. He’s perfect. He’s 6 now and wild and courageous and everything I never could have imagined.

The world shut down for another thing. That was a disaster I never want to experience again but am so proud I survived, surrounded by the best community possible.

And as if all that weren’t enough, we moved across the country. All six of us and my mother in law and started over in a state I swore to never visit again let alone reside in. And of course, somehow, it has become my home. Not my true home. I know more and more that we are mere sojourners on this journey. But a home none the less, full of love, laughter, tears, joy, freedom and growing. So much growing! I just want to write about it all, before it all slips by.

So, if you are here for that journey- that quest- buckle up because as I tell each and every one of my students “Life’s Hard….Wear a Helmet.”

Never

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Tue, 20 Aug 2019 00:32:00 +0000

I’m a fairly superstitious person. I’ve always chalked it up to being from New England. You can't be a Red Sox fan without a healthy fear of jinxes…both big and small: upside down horse shoes, black cats, walking under ladders, “calling” a no-hitter when the pitcher is having a golden game, and my personal plague: saying “never." The very utterance of the word "never" works to ensure that the thing is bound to happen.

Perhaps the most ironic of my “never” declarations comes from my fear of being a mother. There is no job for which I feel more ill-equipped and terrified of than that of raising small human beings into decent, God fearing adults. Mothers are 24/7 life or death decision-making executives for 18+ years straight. This job description doesn’t play to my strengths. I mean I see both sides of every decision. I may take a definitive stance on whether or not I want my appetizer when it's ready or with the others.

And then….of course…because I said never, I became a mom. Within hours I realized that there is no way to prepare for being a parent. It was far more difficult than I predicted and yet exceeded any joy I could have imagined. Still, it was terrifying to continually have someone depending on me for their basic needs. So, I maturely and promptly vowed never to have another child.

But apparently, jinxes are stronger than birth control and only 25 months later my next baby was born, a beautiful tiny girl with perfect pink lips and striking blue eyes. A boy and a girl, both healthy and beautiful, I might be overwhelmed but I knew this kind of happy doesn't come around often. I had everything I never dreamed of and I never planned on having a third.

Yet again, one year later I learned we were (despite all medical explanations) having a third. This was by far the most scary and taxing of my pregnancies. To be honest, most of it I can’t remember: dehydration, hemorrhaging, constant nausea and lapses in and out of consciousness. I learned the hard way I had to depend on others just to survive. And after a complicated and traumatic delivery, I was told that having another child would be a huge risk. I was not worried, I was happy that this third tiny person was in my arms and I never needed to go through all that again.

Four years passed and I started to get cocky, all my children were potty trained and out of early intervention. We didn’t need to lug a stroller or diaper bag everywhere, heck my kids could even buckle their own car seats. The really insane infant/ toddler stage had passed and both the kids and I had survived. I even got to sleep through the night on a regular basis. Nope, I was never having another kid. But I am getting smarter with age and I realized that with my luck I could take no chances. So, I went to my OB-GYN to have an IUD put in. As part of the “pre-op” they had to give me a pregnancy test to make sure there was no baby already occupying that space.

There was. The doctor came back with the strangest look on her face like she was as shocked as I was that modern medicine is truly no match for fate. I was…I am...having a fourth baby.

My whole world came crashing down on my head. I’d already lost my career, my health, my independence once, how could I do it again? Could I even live through the next nine months? And as I sat in my long awaited, seemingly huge SUV, after years of squeezing three babies in a sedan, I realized we would once again have no extra seats or room to pack anything other than baby gear. I began to sob.

Then a verse sprang into my heart so clearly I had to sit up and think, “Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.” Maybe the "curse of never" wasn’t fate, or superstition or a cruel joke. None of the things I had said, "never" to are mere detours or cosmic mistakes, they are the best of me. So, I think it's about time this "advanced age maternal patient" trade in my weak superstitions and finally live by faith in a God who loves me, no matter what, who is a better parent than I will ever be, who fills in the gaps when I fall down and fail. The God for whom nothing is impossible.

Women's World Cup: Hometown Hero

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Sun, 30 Jun 2019 22:08:00 +0000

It surprises people that I played Varsity Soccer in high school. Some people passively acknowledge their disbelief by making vague comments about “athletic people,” of which I am clearly not considered. Others just come right out and say it, “God, I would NEVER think that YOU played sports, you just don’t…uhhh…like seem like the type.” But I did, I played three seasons of varsity sports and in my senior year I was captain of two: soccer and lacrosse. Believe me...I don’t say this to brag. My graduating class was 42 people, roughly half of us were girls. Also, we had more than one sport to choose from… so, despite having a lazy eye and being legally blind without my glasses, I was, at the time, considered one of the most athletic people in my tiny Private School bubble.

The weird thing about a small private school is that you have many “athletes” like myself who love the game and have a healthy competitive nature. But then there are others with honest to goodness insane talent. Truly Big Fish in small ponds. But none as big as one that arose from our rival school, Christian Heritage. As the Women’s World Cup races on and I continually see her on TV, being an all star, and I marvel that I really and truly know her. I mean, not on like a heart to heart level, she did go to our rival school after all but being from such a small world, I was good friends with her cousin and my youngest sister was inseparable from hers at summer camp. Our parents were friends as well.

It’s surreal for me how far she has come. She has flown out of the small pond we both came from and end up dominating in the real freaking ocean. It makes me feel proud and jealous and just all around amazed that an every day person, real flesh and blood is capable of the super human feats we see on TV.

Unless you also went to private school in Connecticut you may not know that I am talking about the tough as nails Alyssa Naeher. Now, I will admit, when I first met her on the pitch I was less enthusiastic than I am now, watching from my couch.

In my senior season of soccer two eighth grade twins were allowed onto our rival school’s soccer team. This was not unheard of since our schools were small and often lacked numbers. But these two were much more than numbers. The twins did not appear threatening at first. They were identical, short and skinny with bowl cuts that never seemed to fall into their eyes. They were wiry, tough and absolutely unstoppable. One of them played goalie and one striker (actually they both probably played both. I honestly don’t know.) We often made jokes that they’d have to get sick or hurt for us to even have a chance. For years they dominated our league. No-one scored against the goalie, no-one could stop the striker. My younger sister played them without success, then my youngest sister as well. Finally, they went off to college and the rest of the league returned to status quo.

But seriously, watching her rise to national and international level is inspirational. She was young and talented but that is never enough. She had setbacks, she had losses, she had to wait and wait and wait….but she never gave up. And the hard work, the day in day out dedication is paying off. I love to watch her play and for all us New Englanders I think she truly deserves the title of Hometown Hero.

Safety from The Storm

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Tue, 28 May 2019 00:58:00 +0000

David had this crazy idea recently to start telling our kids stories before bed. As an English teacher I am BIG on reading to our kids and literacy but had not really considered telling stories, even though I love the idea. David has incredible oral traditions in his family and many nights I have been tempted to capture and put on paper. But the next best thing and maybe the better thing is to pass them on to our children, so that they know who they are. Still, I couldn’t help but write mine up as I pondered them and share them with you all. I hope you enjoy…

https://music.apple.com/us/artist/michael-kelly-blanchard/14813162

When I was just starting elementary school my mom got a job a secretary for Michael Kelly Blanchard, the musician He was a folk singer songwriters whose music we adored and my mom was looking for a job with flexible hours, preferably one she could bring Anne to. (Stop now and buy all his songs on iTunes!!! Be prepared to cry. Winter Babies and She Knows have special meaning to me.) The plan was for Anne to nap while mom worked. My mom was a great worker. She had graduated the top of her class at Katherine Gibbs Secretarial school in NYC. She was really what we now refer to as “an administrative assistant.” She did everything but write and sing the songs. She and my dad even helped produce them if needed. The Blanchard’s house in Torrington had a loft sort of attic that they had turned into a recording studio. Mrs. Blanchard was a teacher at my school so either she or my dad would often bring me home, along with her daughter Esther and her son Reuben. Reuben had bright, flaming red hair and the Blanchards called him, “Copper Top battery boy.” (also a song) No-one at school dared call him that. He was way too cool. In fact, I barely had the nerve to talk to him at school, despite the fact that our school boasted only a couple hundred kids K-12. He was just that far above my social station at school. But at home he was like a brother, a best friend. He introduced me to Tale Spin followed by Dark-wing Duck. He knew every word or the McDonald’s Big Mac song. He would play it on his mini record player that only played plastic records. The player was yellow and red; I think he might have gotten it from a happy meal or as a mail in prize from a cereal company. The prizes back then were SO much better.

Anyway, Reuben was super cool and super nice. He was two years ahead of me in school. Esther was amazing too, she was four years older than us and since she was in middle school she rarely had time to watch cartoons. She mostly had to work on homework when we got back from school. But sometimes on Saturdays like the one when Hurricane Grace hit, she’d take care of all of us, plan something fun. Hurricane Grace was not the biggest hurricane to visit the east coast, but it became the most notorious. It was pulled into a storm that was never named, and has lived in infamy as the No-Name storm among New Englanders. To the rest of the world, it is known as “The Perfect Storm.” The storm where a boat full of men was lost at sea never to be found again. A storm that inspired a book, that inspired a movie that put Gloucester, Massachusetts on the map. Famous for the tragedies of that very storm.

We had no idea about any of this however, Saturday morning my parents were planning on recording with the Blanchards. I believe it was the album “Heartguard.” I loved that album, mostly because of the cover of the Vinyl it was a lock that was shaped like a heart. A lock that was actually given to me by my godfather. It was old and rusty but it still worked.

We were not allowed to be anywhere around when they were recording so we had to go out which meant we needed Esther. She let us play hide and seek in the backyard, and ride bikes up and down the street. Eventually, we even convinced her to take us to the bakery downtown for cupcakes. The Blanchard’s had an old Coca-Cola machine in the garage. So old, the sign said a coke was only ten cents. It didn’t really work anymore so Mrs. Blanchard used it like an icebox or refrigerator and Reuben used it as his piggy bank. We got enough out for a cupcake or two and started downtown. It had been raining on all morning. I’d heard on the news driving over that there might be a hurricane but it didn’t seem particularly threatening. I only remember it was eerily warm and wet all day. At noon, just before we headed out to the bakery, the fire station siren went off. It was a town wide bad weather warning. That happened a lot. We figured unless we saw lightening we were okay.

Then the wind started. It would be still as a lake in the morning and then blast against us like an ocean wave. The wind was so strong it actually knocked Anne down several times. In fact, one time in knocked her down and she rolled into the street. She scraped up her hands and knees and so we headed back to get band aides.

Our parents were frantic when we got back; Where had we gone? What were we thinking? Didn’t we know we were in the middle of a hurricane? Still, once they realized we were alright, we all decided to do the most foolish thing possible and sit on the front porch watching the wind and the rain. The sky was orange, a strange ominous color like the heat was coming from the wind itself. The raindrops were huge. We put on rain coats and played and splashed in the puddles. They had a radio out on the porch and played music for us to dance interrupted only by storm updates. When the music played, I turned my head up to the sky and danced and laughed. I loved the rain I would laugh with it and dance with it. I would not be afraid. But soon, the radio was warned everyone the Governor Dukakis and Governor Weiker had both issued a state of emergency. That meant we had to get inside.

Fortunately, boring just wasn't part of the Blanchard's vocabulary. Reuben would play along as Anne and I would reenact The Star Wars Episodes IV, V and VI with Mrs. Blanchard’s trivets (see below...so galactic). Then, we would all gather around, even the adults and we would play board games and laugh until our sides ached. Our two favorites not even when the power went out. Mrs. Blanchard would get out the old school Narnia board games and we would fight like cats and dogs to be the valiant mouse Reapacheep. Next, we’d move on to Encore where we had to ban Mr. Blanchard for using his own songs, especially those still in progress. Finally, when the power went out, we would sing old folk songs and the parents would take turns reading out loud until we fell asleep. And while we slept the storm passes. That is what I remember about the Blanchard’s house. Thought the tumultuous years of growing up they were a safe haven my sister and I could always count on and not many people have that.

The Wildling

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Sun, 21 Apr 2019 02:26:00 +0000

Confession time: I watch Game of Thrones... obsessively and.... yes there is gratuitous violence, nudity, incest and other atrocities that shall not be named. Still, something about it fascinates me and makes me think in new ways about life, death and power. I think often of something a coworker mentioned once long ago, in the first season, "No one is sacred, anyone can die." The mortality and the sinfulness of both the most lovable and hatable characters reminds me ironically enough of a scripture, "For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God." No one deserves that wretched Iron Throne (although I have my theories) and all have lied, betrayed, killed, stolen or worse. Westeros and Essos may be fantasy but "All good fantasy has a solid base in reality."*. So, I got to thinking....

If I was really and truly a character from Game of Thrones who would I be? I began to take stock in a deeper way, considering all aspects of my life, not just who is my “spirit animal" (Tyrion Lannister according to Buzzfeed) or who I wish I would be (Ygritte, if you must know). And who I came up with would be one of my last choices...

Being a mother rules out most of the women I most identify with in a fantastical sense:
I am no cold blooded Arya, no cynical Sansa, nor beautifully manipulative Margaery Tyrell. I am no single-mindedly brash Brianne of Tarth. I only wish I could be the multilingual Missandei.
But though I have a career and grew up dreaming of being a fighter, there are other things that define me and nothing more than the children I have borne and the way I love them.
So, I look at the mother figures I might resemble if I lived in the land of Fire and Ice:

Daenerys Targaryen- Mother of Dragons….but I feel like she is really more of a dog mom. Her love is deep and real but her children’s needs are slightly different than most mom’s experience.

Cersei Lannister- God forbid- She is the original helicopter indulgent parent. She would totally blame a teacher for her child’s teacher for a B+ rather than be okay with it or think maybe her child needs a good hard spanking.

Olenna Tyrell- Too old and rich- She’s a force to be reckoned with and I love that. However, I just don’t think I have a murderer deep inside of me. But… all bets are off if one day I have grandkids and one of them is betrothed to a known sociopath.

Caitlin Stark- In a way the one who started it all- Still, she is northern, strong, loves her sister and devoted to her husband, all things I find to be integral to how I would like to define myself. But her encouragement of Arya to fit in and her rejection of Jon Snow just feels wrong. Never-mind, the way she keeps her waist length hair pristine and waltzes around in beautiful gowns. I'm just not noble or proper enough.

So, that leaves Gilly…The Wildling, Samwell Tarly rescues. She and I are more alike than simply our shared English curse of poor dental hygiene. She is a survivor. Her manners may be terrible, and her awkwardness abounds. She knows nothing about being a mother except making sure her son survives. I complain way more than she ever would but as a character I share her feelings of shame or embarrassment in a world I don’t full belong to. I also share her amazement not only that someone could love me and does, but that someone is a man who noble, wise and brave. And perhaps it is this other worldliness not magic or power but simple lessons you can only learn in the school of hard knocks that will make her a major player. She knows there really is a battle between good and evil. She has first hand experience of the terrifying rituals of the Night King. She has faith and she has love. I guess the more I think about it, the more I flatter myself with the comparison.

* I am not in any way encouraging or condoning watching graphic content. It simply was a catalyst that got me thinking more about my real life, about who I really am. I hope it gets you thinking too. What matters most? Beneath the obvious who values what you value?

Showing up for Snow Days

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Wed, 06 Mar 2019 02:53:00 +0000

I have mixed feelings about snow days. I love that I don’t have to scramble out of bed in the morning, push aside the piles of books that cover every surface of my house and pack unvarying unhealthy lunches that my kids won’t like. I don’t have to rush and brush my teeth before I wake the kids up because I might not have the chance once they are up and I am herding them out the door like cats to a bath. Instead, I look out my window at the drifts of pristine white snow. Not yet concerned with the weight of aforementioned snow or what to do with aforementioned kids.

The concerns become very real as I "sense" a tiny person standing next to my bed just staring at me with round blue eyes reaching out until her small hand touches the blanket and tugs at it insistently. This would totally freak me out if it wasn't how my kids woke me up every day.

Suddenly, the whole day stretches out, unstructured before me. What may sound blissful to those free spirits like my husband immediately causes my throat tighten and my heart constrict.

No structure means everything is in play, more balls than I can possibly juggle. I immediately begin to fuel my arsenal to combat: boredom, complaining, bickering, breaking things, need for exercise, and worst of all, meals and snacks. And that is just what I’m preparing for on a behavioral level. I also have to think through the possible pitfalls of emotions; mine and theirs… panic, anger, frustration, and disappointment all seem more potent on unstructured days.

So here is what we did. I didn’t really plan it. After almost 9 years it is starting to dawn on me that anything I plan will be thrown off and anything I think I've figured out will change drastically in 6 months when they all go through new phases of growing up.

1. I left breakfast to David and since he'd already prepared eggs and bacon Saturday and Sunday, we decided to use this as an opportunity to teach the kids to be self-sufficient and fend for themselves. Fortunately we had plenty of time for the five to ten spills that inevitably ensued. After breakfast, I strongly encourage getting dressed which one of my children resists more strongly than the others (hint: it’s NOT the one who has somehow procured a Disney princess outfit for every day of the week. Even though we wear uniforms to school and buy almost everything second hand.)

2. Next, I worked on tiring them out…chores and shoveling. Everyone has to go outside. My Disney Princess does NOT like this rule. She is constantly trying to relocate to Florida or California, both of which put her near her three favorite things: Disney, the beach and grandparents and away from the cold, heavy lifting and unflattering hand-me down boots.

3. I always decide to have school anyway because I am a teacher. I am also the daughter of a zealous teacher. Fortunately, I have the perspective to see how good for me it was. So, we all spend 30 min to an hour working on things we are learning. For my four year old that is still the alphabet. The six year old challenges herself to identify her first sight words. And my darling dyslexic high year old sets his face like flint to the Orton-Gillingham workbooks. I do my best to be satisfied with 5 minutes of focus and 45 of emotional meltdowns and fighting because apparently I missed the memo that the whole point of snow days is NO SCHOOL and everyone is a little hangry.

4. So we have lunch. Again with the all important fending for themselves.

5. Now it depends on timing but we throw on a TV show or perhaps like today if they are being undeniably well behaved I read aloud. Finally, nap time and screen time. The only real requirement for these two hours are that it is quiet.

The rest of the day is somewhat of a blur because it is not very unlike a school day. Today the girls made an art gallery which my son promptly sabotaged. We watched a Barbie movie and got pizza. David made a fire and I set the vacuum on fire trying to tidy up the debris from the logs and accidentally sucking up a spark that had flown out of the fireplace.

Everyone is now in bed. We survived the dust fueled inferno, the fighting and the noise. They ate and slept and read. Still, one of the hardest things about being a parent is that there is no real metric. No daily check in to see how I fared on the cosmic parenting scale. So, before I climb over the stacks of books next to my bed I remind myself of a Woody Allen quote I once pinned, “80% of success is showing up.”

Why I didn't run away

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Mon, 14 Jan 2019 01:16:00 +0000

In 1992 there was a Fleet bank halfway between my best friend’s house and my own. At least, we gauged it as halfway in our 7 year mind. Having driven it now as an adult I’d gauge it at closer to 20/80 my house being 80% of the distance. My house was farther from everything. We lived an hour from the school my dad worked at and thus at least 15 miles from even our nearest friends.

After a hard week of second grade mileage was of little import to us. We were suppose to meet at this bank at midnight on a Wednesday. That way, our parents wouldn’t notice we were gone until at least 5 or 6am. We both felt we had plenty of reason to run away. Her parents were strict, mine were stricter. We were never allowed as many sleepovers as we wanted. We were, to quote The Little Mermaid, “bright young women, stuck a swimming ready to stand!”

There was no definite plan of where we’d go after the bank. The bank was a key part of the plan because I knew my grandmother had a savings account in my name there. I not yet learned, that the term “banker’s hours” did not in fact mean any old time of the day, especially midnight and more especially before ATMs were invented. There were other things we had not considered such as eating, beyond perhaps bringing Dunkaroos as snacks. Not to mention, our total oblivion to the issues of safety, legality and just plain exhaustion.

And yet, it was not any of these things that kept me from running away. Yes, when the night approached I was scared, a little of the dark, a little of finding my way across two towns but most importantly I was terrified by the prospect of never seeing my family again.

In my egocentric child mind I had imagined how sorry they would be that I was gone. How much they would miss all my help. But the truth was, I would have been so sorry if I had set even one foot out the door.

I tried to put it into words for my best friend when we sheepishly saw each other at school the next day was, “You know we always have plenty of time for adventures somewhere else, what if something exciting happens right here and we miss it.”

She nodded slowly, “Yeah, we can try again next year or over the summer if we want to.” And eventually we did leave home, but no matter how hard things got over the next ten years, and I’m sorry to say we faced many tragedies far greater than those of second grade, we never ran away and we did have many epic adventures.

Nuclear Power: Based on a true story

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Fri, 07 Dec 2018 02:21:00 +0000

When the Unit 2 reactor on Three Mile Island (TMI-2) began to meltdown just before 4 am o Wednesday, March 28th, 1979 the NRC called my dad. Admittedly, it was not the biggest mistake made that day but it was pretty indicative of the type of day the US government was having. My dad worked at a local Christian school and painted houses on the side. He had been clean for over five years but he wasn’t that far removed from protesting National Disasters rather than containing them.

His father, however, for whom he was named, Joseph Robert Dietrich was nuclear physicist. This surprises a lot of people. I kind of forget sometimes. I guess it’s a big deal. I used to imagine him as a hero, meeting at some secret location that had been secured by an Indian Jones like character discussing how millions of lives could be saved without dropping “the bomb.” But even after he died and I stood in the coolness of my grandmother’s basement reading a letter from Albert Einstein to Doc, my grandfather, I knew that more lives had been lost by his attempts to harness atomic energy in a safe way than he could ever make peace with. It haunted him, I think, the lives his genius had taken, drove him to drink, to hide deep within himself, to be a well dressed distinguished rambling man. Eventually, he paid his debt for selling his soul to science sacrificing his revolting body to experimentation and study. The still might not have a cure for ALS but thanks to my grandfather they know at least a hundred more ways not to cure it. I think his friend Al would approve of that.

I was born shortly after he died. I was not a cute baby, no-one pretended that I was. My godfather’s best description was “lumpy.” Some people tried to say they saw my grandmother in me. Mostly because we both had horrendous eyesight and our most prominent feature was always our coke bottle glasses. But I had head full of brains and that was power. I didn’t have a way with numbers, just with words. Reading surprised me by being so much harder than talking. Talking has always been a breeze, it’s stopping that is hard. One of my student’s insightfully commented that, “ words just fell out of [my] mouth.” It’s true, my brain works so much faster than my common sense can keep up. I need a neurological version of the bumper sticker “Don’t drive faster than your guardian angel can fly.” Something like, “Don’t talk faster than you can process your own words and their possible effects.”

It wasn’t just talking that came easily, I remembered the details of every day. I found about the same time as my first panic attack that replaying the day in details was an effective way to ward off insomnia. It was also a survival technique as my parents only had one rule: Obey. And so listening and remembering was of vital importance to avoid the spankings that accompanied disobedience. Quoting my mom to herself was the most surefire way to avoid punishment. (Don't worry I am getting full payback now that I'm a mom.)

I also learned the sort of facts that impress people. I didn’t mind studying. I studied the things that people I felt people who were smart knew. So, I studied Doc’s work. I clearly remember standing in my grandmother’s basement, stuccoed inside and out. The air was thick with Virginia humidity. I had the door open to look out over the James river meandering past as I helped my dad clear out Doc’s things. I was convinced we’d find a secret cabinet or trap door in his desk. There were a good amount of classified documents but nothing top level. Still, I’m fairly certain I was the first 5 year old proponent of nuclear power. I knew the fatal flaw in my argument was how to dispose safely of the Uranium but that was before we even knew were were tearing a hole in our own sky. People were reckless but not ballsy enough to welcome a power source that also had fueled the greatest act of mass destruction to date. It was understandable. I am still contemplating the energy problem, over 30 years later.

Doc may not have given the world the power source he felt it needed but he empowered me to learn everything I could about this beautiful messy world. And yes, he messed up a lot. He hurt so many people, millions he never knew and a handful who'd spent a lifetime loving him. So, I learned that from him too...as Mr. Browne puts it in the fantastic book , "When given the choice between being right and being kind. Choose kind." -RJ Palacio

Coach

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Thu, 08 Feb 2018 10:51:00 +0000

    It’s hard to write about those that we have loved and lost. But sometimes its the best thing we can do because words written amidst of tears can be like the tears of a Phoenix, healing us as we rise from the ashes. And it is from ash and dust that we all begin and to dust we all return.
    I often wonder if there is truth in the lyrics claiming “only the good die young.” It feels like that to me. It’s always the good ones, the people you want to hold onto forever who are suddenly gone.
     So it was with my coach this past weekend. For those of you who have ever played a sport and especially to those of you who have ever been an underdog, you have that coach. The one who always believed in you, who never gave up on you even when you wanted to give up on yourself. It’s almost as if they’ve walked out of the Remember the Titans script and are making it come true in your very own crazy life.
     My coach was named Ginny Hill. At least that was her name when I met her as a 4 foot sixth grader, trying out for the middle school soccer team. To be clear although the tryouts were really more of a formality than an actual culling process since we all made it in some sense of the word, I was facing them with coke bottle thick glasses, zero sports experience and little of hope of doing more than “riding the pine pony” or “keeping the starters spots warm” as you will… so when the very first game she started me in goal no less, I was speechless. Coach told me later, when I made Varsity as a freshman that she chose me for my heart, my “lion bird heart,” a nickname my college roommate later resurrected. She changed my life that day she put me in goal and she continued to do so for the next 3 years of middle school.   It is part of the reason I love to teach middle school. My own experience was so poignant. I grew a quarter of an inch but leaps and bounds in confidence and friendships.         Coach had a pretty big 3 years too. The team fought side by side with her against her first bout with cancer. I remember how seriously we took each poster we made her and each round of chemo she conquered. She was a hero to all of us and amidst this crazy battle, she got engaged and married!
    She could never convince me that anyone would ever be good enough for her. She was a saint. But as I got to know Paul over the next 20 years, he won me over. He became a mentor to me as well, with his humble servant’s heart and constant faith in the face of hardship. Every day found them with a smile on their faces, even at times amidst tears. I saw them less and less after moving across the country and then back but she always made time for me.
     I won’t be there tomorrow to celebrate her life in CT but I will be thinking of her and telling all my kids about how God used her in my life.

A Letter to President Trump on Martin Luther King Jr Day 2018

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Mon, 15 Jan 2018 04:31:00 +0000

Dear President Trump,

Confession. I am prejudiced. I cried the day you were elected. I was frightened by a world who would elect a white, rich and powerful man. A man, so much like the one who took away my innocence before I finished first grade.

As I sat in my bathroom crying, I remembered going into the voting booth with my mom back when Dukakis was running against the first Bush. My job was to keep the cheap blue curtain in place while my mom got to pull the levers. I couldn’t wait till the day I got to pull those levers. I even aspired to be on the ballot.

Full disclosure: In my first Presidential election I voted for George W. Bush to serve a second term as our president. I figured he was the one who got us into the Iraq war which my friends had heedlessly enlisted in, only to come back ghosts of their former selves. I guess I was just hoping that he had a plan and I was wise enough, even at 19, to see that bureaucracy required almost a decade to carry out a plan.

Fuller Disclosure: I voted both terms for Barack Obama. I not only wanted an African

American to be president, I wanted him to be president. I admired the way he wrote his memoir so humbly, admitting his weaknesses and insecurities. I liked the way he told stories of all the people he’d met along the campaign trail. He was so skilled at diplomacy and after eight years of war in the Middle East I believed that we needed someone who would sit down and talk, someone who was internationally savvy. Maybe it was vanity, maybe as a speech and debate teacher and coach I wanted someone well spoken.

Fullest Disclosure: I did not vote for you last year but neither did I vote for Hillary Clinton. I did what most would say was wasting my vote by casting it for an independent.

Now, here I sit, a white mother of three white children, trying to make sense of how to celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. in light of your alleged racist remarks.

I face 3 main problems:

1. My first dilemma- Your comments themselves. Even if they prove to be inaccurate in the particulars I take issue with them and even to your rebuttal to the allegations: "I am not a racist. I'm the least racist person you will ever interview.” http://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-42685356

This strikes me as ridiculous. How can we ever crown someone “the least racist.” It’s immeasurable and unquantifiable. Even if someone is an activist for racial and ethnic equality we can never know the moments of snap judgements they make based on their own subjective experiences and unacknowledged indoctrination into “how life works.”

2. My second dilemma- Martin Luther King Jr. was not perfect. He was a great man. He made the world a better place but not without controversy. “King was regularly accused of what today would be called ‘reverse racism;’ of hating white people. One piece of hate- mail is particularly revealing: “How can you be a minster and have such hatred in your heart for the ‘white’-race and the Nation in general?” http://www.missioalliance.org/king-wasnt-peaceful Frankly, it makes me uncomfortable to contemplate that in his mind I owe Black Americans reparations for the sins of my forefathers I hate being lumped together with bigots and racists because I am white. In fact it makes me want to dig up dirt on him such as the fact that he was unfaithful to his wife, and he put her and his children in danger as well as leaving them penniless. But I know that is petty.

3. My final dilemma: What can or should I do? My first instinct is to stay silent because I have yet to “win” a debate via social media or blogging. Also, I run the risk of being misinterpreted and phrasing something in a particularly offensive way to someone, which would break my heart. But in the end I love Martin Luther King Jr's message and I think he deserves to be celebrated. I found this article that I think is really helpful on how that can play out in each of our personal lives.

https://hellogiggles.com/news/politics/9-ways-celebrate-martin-luther-king-jr-day-meaningfully

He was a man who truly made America great and he did so by recognizing that without humility, self-sacrifice, faith and love our own beloved country is a hateful sh--hole. So, let's go President Trump. Let's honor the man who gave his life for equality and civil rights. Let's make America great again.

Sincerely,

K.D. Simington

Silver Thunderbird

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Thu, 04 Jan 2018 17:10:00 +0000

Prompt #4- Write about a car.

       Just before the start of school in 7th grade I was lamenting the poison ivy scabs that still oozed out of her chin despite my best efforts not to scratch them. My dad came almost dancing into the indoor/outdoor flag stone floor of our kitchen. I turned to him and threw the front door open wider motioning for us all to come and look. I peered behind him and saw my mom’s maroon station wagon that he had bartered a whole summer of roofing to get, and next to it I saw a new car. Well, truth be told it looked like a very used car but definitely new to us. It held some similarities to the 1985 Camry that had died about the time Dad began his roofing for the station wagon. “It’s a T-bird,” My dad gleamed. “The Shoemachers
      “Why?” I asked taking a bite of my peanut butter toast.
      “Why?!” He echoed. “They are classic cars! Marc Cohen ‘Silver Thunderbird?!’” I knew the song and I double checked. This car could not truly be a Thunderbird. It had no chrome, no fins, small lights and looked nothing like the bat mobile. Dad headed into the living room to play the CD. He was all about CDs in 1997. I was skeptical but he had given me almost all of his cassette tapes in favor of the “Compact Disc.” My mom still listened to her records on the record player and those songs were my very favorite. I wished she’d let me play them. But in no uncertain terms I knew that if I ever touched the record player I would instantly break the needle and then it could be months before my mom could harangue my dad into getting her a new one. He slipped Marc Cohen into the entertainment center that he had built from scrap wood from various side jobs.

    “Why were Rick and Lynn getting rid of it?” My mom asked, wiping her soapy hands on a dish towel.
    “Aww, you know Rick, he doesn’t really work with his hands. Some small electrical problem and he’d just as soon get a new car.”
         I marveled at this. “One man’s trash is another’s treasure” held Biblical status in our house and that was saying something. I looked at my mom, for I knew she did not ascribe quite as whole heartedly to the axiom. The pressure in the room suddenly made my head hurt, the same way the atmosphere warned me when a thunderstorm was coming. My headaches were totally debilitating but they were also what had taught me the joy of escaping to my room with tea and a good, easy read. No-one would knock, knocking would make it worse. So, I crept upstairs and tucked myself under my comforter. It was a little scratchy but looked paint splattered which was exactly the motif I’d begged to instill upon my entire room. It was not to be.

My sister came in, up from a nap, or a session of reorganizing her books across the floor of her room. She wore the sesame street ABC comforter that I’d handed down around her like a cape. She lay down next to my bed.
        “I can’t read out loud.” I told her flatly.
        “Ok,” she shrugged. She produced her LiteBrite miraculously from the folds of the well worn canopy. She settled down against the spray painted metal bars of my bed. We’d rescued it from the trash and it’s fancy wrought iron work reminded me of “The Little Princess.” I liked to imagine waking up to a surprise feast one morning. I’d even imagine eating and enjoying a tangerine which was something I’d never done. Anything with seeds was anathema to me. I gagged at the thought.

    “Do you want to make a radio show?” She asked. Sometimes we’d hide in my wardrobe; I was fairly certain one of these days we’d be allowed to enter Narnia but until Aslan deigned to see us, we made radio shows. We had a cast off cassette player from my dad and a good amount of blank tapes and those we’d tape over.

NaNoWriMo Recap

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Sun, 10 Dec 2017 19:51:00 +0000

It started as just a camaraderie thing. I knew there were several writer friends doing NaNoWriMo and i; e always wanted to write a novel so why not do it in a month? I'm crazy like that, right?
Plus, I was spurred on by the adrenaline from the Boston Book Festival. So, I figured I'd participate, get some words on the page which is notoriously difficult.

         I didn't take it very seriously at first, I didn't jealously fight for my writing time. I wasn't willing to get up early. At first, it was just a jumble of moments, no real order or plan but they were all moments that mattered to me.
          They were all part of my story . I began to realize in a new way how skewed my relationship with God has been, how much I have not changed since I was a child, how much I refuse to change. How deep the wounds and brokenness go. As I'd write I'd wonder, "Has there ever been anyone so messed up as me? Making deals with God and bargaining a way to avoid my pain." Then I'd reply (to myself) "SO many, I know, all of us, broken and bruised….human after all. Only human and him all knowing but how can we ever heal? How can we ever change? How can my story be any more than just a mess of mixed up doctrines and false assumptions."
   I decided to start taking things a little more seriously and realized that I love writing at the Library. I feel so inspired and though the books do distract me for a while, once I set down to work things go much more smoothly, efficiently. I also notice I don’t watch music videos at the library. I just listen to instrumental music and focus on the writing. Sometimes I only put one headphone in so I can be aware of my surroundings. Music videos seem inappropriate at the library and I suppose they are addicting and distracting even at home.
     Trying to find the right music added to my guilt over falling behind on my word count. First, it was wine and then scandalous pop song videos. But it was also what I was writing. I felt a guilt that was heavy and demanded healing when I wrote about my ex boyfriend, when I relived sweet moments together, re-imagining them with rose colored glasses but the process also forced me to confront why we didn’t end up together. It wasn’t just that he smoked weed and drank or didn’t care about women’s rights. A cynic could accuse my husband of those things as well (albeit in the past.) No, it was that this boy I loved at first, did not love God more than he loved me. And to write it off as anything else would be dishonest.
          And I began to take writing more seriously, I began to take the themes and questions I was wrestling with and weave them into a fictional quilt filled with very true moments. But then fatigue set in. Each word was like a slow crawl to the finish. I could not seem to get my words down and the words I did get down felt cliche and ambling. I was annoyed at myself but refused to give up. I had written so much already; probably more than in the past two years combined or at least equal to it. There was already so much to edit and to play with. I think that will be the fun part. If only I could figure out what music to listen to.
       Before I could believe it, it was already the last day. The very last write in on the last day. I had 5,000 words left to write and so little energy. The leader of my writing group put these two pins in front of me and told me to choose. I could continue this story next year or next month or I could finish it in the next 3 hours. I began to write feverishly. I wrote and I wrote. I set my timer and every half hour I'd give myself a cookie...literally. I tried extending scenes that felt short and adding description where it was lacking. I was scrambling.
     Then, at 11:43 with 22 minutes left of the month I finished. I would not say it is a truly complete novel. But it is a love story that I am proud of. It is more than a start it has a beginning, middle and end. I can't believe how long it took and how hard it was and yet how worth it. I felt like a winner and when people ask me what I've won, I show them the pin. Because really that is enough, more than enough.
        I gave myself a whole week off. But part of me doesn't want to lose momentum. I want to keep "writing like my pen is on fire." So, I think I will. I think I will always write. It is part of me.

The hat

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Thu, 23 Nov 2017 00:51:00 +0000

Prompt #2 “He couldn’t take it anymore. This was the last time he was going to let her”

“He couldn’t take it anymore. This was the last time he was going to let her” hurt herself. The scabs disgusted him. Her perfect porcelain skin clawed into thumb-sized pox. He’s watch her do it. Her eyes would start to scan their surroundings restlessly. She’d shift in her sit, cross and recross her legs. Then, reach her dirty, ragged nails to the nape of her neck and quickly scratch an imagined itch. She’d pull her hand down and then thoughtlessly reach up again finding a razor sharp edge to her claws and drag them across her chin or hairline with enough pressure to draw blood. He’d reach to swat her hand down but it was too late.

She was hooked now, her hand would surreptitiously search her scalp for dead skin to pull away, old scars to reopen, any way to let the panic inside ooze out. She’d examine her hands. Unaware of him now. He’s hit her again, swatting just hard enough to startle her back to reality. Once, during a movie he’d asked her to sit on her hands and she had dutifully obeyed just until his attention was riveted back to the screen, then she’d reach back up to her face, digging deeper and deeper pits, aiming for arteries, examining old pus with detachment.

He’d get so mad and she’d cry helplessly. They even made a pact one hopeful date night. She agreed that for every time she drew her own blood she’d stick on a huge floppy hat regardless of the time or place. The intention was two-fold to block her access to her most prone areas but also to shame her into breaking the habit. The next day, he stopped by for lunch and she guiltily let the brim of the hat fall over her eyes as she cried salty tears into the sandwich they were sharing.

“Don’t you want to stop?” he asked.
“Of course,” she wailed.
“Then, why do you keep doing it. You know it’s going to get infected. I listened to a podcast the other day where a girl dug a hole so deep into her own head that they could see her skull. It was so infected they couldn’t get it to heal. Is that what you want?”
She shook her head vehemently. “I’m so scared that’s what is going to happen.”
“Why? That’s ridiculous! It’s your choice, it’s not like it happens without you knowing. You are doing this to yourself!” He allowed some scorn to harden his voice. His eyes flashed and cut her heart.
“It IS like it is happening without me knowing. Most of the time it’d totally subconscious. I hate it but once I start I just can’t stop.”
“Of course you can….you’re not a zombie or something. You can’t stop because you think you can’t. Mind over matter.”

She rolled her eyes, and scratched an imagined itch by her wrist, she made an X in the skin pressing diagonally with her thumb in one direction and the other with as much pressure as she could muster. No relief, she scratched absently looking for a more tender spot, an old wound, preferably near some nerves.

   “I’m not really hungry…I don’t feel good. Do you mind if I go for a quick run?” she begged.
    “Sure,” he replied. Flicking on the TV.

She threw on the same thing she’d worn the day before, old sports bra, the Rose Bowl Race for a Cure Shirt and running shorts. She contemplated the day old socks but didn’t have the energy to go searching for new ones. She had to get out. She ignored the smell, pulled them on, dragged her headphones off the dresser in her room and gave Will a quick kiss on the cheek before she scanned her iPod for her running mix. She walked until she found it, stuck in her headphones, hating the way they felt in her ears. She began to jog.

Strabismus

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Thu, 09 Nov 2017 23:36:00 +0000

Prompt: Write about a time you tried something new. (500 words)

    Leaves were something new. Her six year old mind marveled at their meticulous veins and arteries. The overlapping details stunned her senses. Until this morning she had lived in a watercolor world, trees were topped with green in the summer, orange and yellow in the fall and suddenly were bare branches in the winter. This spring she’d seen nothing at all. Dr. Tom had explained the procedure with cartoons, diagrams and even an episode of Sesame Street.
    But nothing had prepared her for the reality of waking up; screaming and clawing at a sharp needle pinning the back of her hand. Worst of all was the total darkness, she flailed to fight that too but her eyes felt taped shut. She finally drew a breath, and then another that wasn’t a scream. She kept breathing counting each minute of this eery eclipse.
    It had been that way for two weeks. Her cassette player automatically flipped at the end of a side so with eyes bandaged like a war veteran she listened continuously to the first installment of Prince Caspian, picturing it in her mind to stay sane. After another two weeks the bandages were removed but she wore dark glasses and kept her eyes shut most of the time. As her mom weaned her off these children began to cry when they saw her at her in the park, backing away as if she had scalded them. She asked about this and her mom reminded her of Dr. Tom’s warnings. Her eyes would be bright red- blood shot for a few weeks after the operation.

Then this morning she had opened her eyes and seen. There outside her window, drawn in sharp focus hung emerald green leaves. There were more than she could have ever imagined. It took hundreds to comprise the whole of even one tree’s foliage. She took time studying the individuals feeling silly and sorry that for so long she had only known them as a crowd. She looked beyond them briefly and was stunned by the sight of the sky. The clouds. The clouds were not flat white things painted on the vault of blue. The sky was so much nearer than she had ever imagined. She wondered at the varied depths and distances of the air and atmosphere.
She lay her head back on the pillow and resolved to ask for only a skylight this summer. She knew her dad could do it. He was constantly pulling off other people’s roofs and re-roofing them. Besides she knew the ceiling above her was still damaged from the chimney fire over the winter. She sighed, imagining the perfection of watching the stars pass overhead as she fell asleep. Perfection. Perhaps they also held secrets she had never before known.

Boston Book Festival

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Sun, 29 Oct 2017 11:47:00 +0000

    It should have been a no-brainer for me to be attending the Boston Book Festival for the years that I’ve lived here. But no, I regret now that I missed 9 seasons of an amazing and FREE cultural experience.

But that’s what friends are for.

    While changing over my laundry at the Big A laundromat (Names may have been changed to protect…well….me I guess) Anyway, while carefully shifting armloads of damp clothing careful to not lose any baby socks, I heard a booming voice behind me, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” I smiled to myself. Matt of the laundromat, and more importantly Matt the writer. In short order, I had apprised him of the most efficient dryers and he had convinced me to attend at least the Writer’s Idol portion of the Boston Book Festival.

    And so sitting in a room jammed packed with aspiring and perspiring writer’s I calculated the chances of my first page being read and analyzed by the agents at the front. 250 submissions, and 20-25 to be read. It was certainly better than playing the lottery, or not submitting anything at all.

    As piece after piece was read, I gathered some important insights. For example, I was quickly schooled about cliches I didn’t even know were cliche. Sure, after reading thousands of pieces of middle and high school writing I knew better than to let “the sun shimmer” or the “water sparkle.” But I had less of an idea that I should avoid starting a submission with: a dream, the weather a flashback, how the post office works, a therapist’s office.

    The most important thing of all is to write. And I’ve realized that it takes a village to do just that. So, I’m back in blogosphere, giving a big shout out to each of you amazing readers, the author over at https://candidsandwanderingwords.wordpress.com and to my writing friend’s from TMWC. So very many thanks! Now to try NaNoWriMo….

A Ward Wedding Toast...Two weeks later

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Fri, 01 Jul 2016 01:57:00 +0000

I discovered a pretty surprising fact two weeks ago today. It’s still fresh but I think I’m ready to write about it… I am not good at wedding speeches. It’s bit embarrassing to tell the truth. In case you were unaware, I TAUGHT public speaking for almost 6 years, so you’d think I had this in the bag. But when I grabbed the mic that Friday night, “My mind just drew a blank, like ‘La-La-La.’” (Anyone? The Game, early 2000s? No?! anyway….)

But Hunter and Jane deserve better than that. And it is not too late! So, this is what I wish I’d said even though I definitely would have gotten choked up…maybe have had to hold up a shaky hand and ask everyone to wait a minute while I pulled it together….but this is what I would have said if I had the guts.

Photograph courtesy of http://www.markspoonerphoto.com

Jane, I love you. I have loved you since the moment you were born. I have loved you beyond all reason and cherish every moment with you. I am so sorry I have tried so hard to be your mother. I am sorry I have tried so hard to be “cool.” I am sorry I did not figure out sooner how to be more transparent and genuine with such an extraordinary little sister.

I’m sorry that I taught you how to skinny dip and streak around town forest….well mostly I’m just sorry you got caught ;)

I am not at all sorry that we are hardcore Disneyland fans, that we love hiking to Heublein Tower, writing each other letters, and reading the Baudelaires aloud (that was like my first sign that Hunter was “the one” for you. A die hard Lemmony Snicket fan is a true gem).

I am grateful for the way you cared for James when I was sick but had to go back to work. I am grateful that you love each my kids like your own. I am grateful for our mutual love of ice dancing and Downton Abbey. I am grateful that we have finally found our groove of being genuine kindred spirits, best friends and sisters. I feel blessed beyond all measure. I feel like the luckiest.

---------

And Hunter….let’s be honest….you are the luckiest;) I kind of feel that Scout should give this part of the speech since she adores you as purely as only a three year old can. She knew from the moment she met you that you were a good man; that you were her friend; that you were family.

Photograph courtesy of http://www.markspoonerphoto.com

She has told me that she loves “how you play games… that you are funny and ….your beard.” I think that is a pretty good list. But I want to add some qualities that are so admirable about you. And I’ve found there are a lot of things to admire. I admire your humility, especially about your skill at lacrosse. I admire your insight into athletics and the arts. I’ll never forget how much you seemed to just “get” Jane’s artwork at her senior show. You didn’t just politely glance at it, you analyzed it and appreciated it deeply.

I admire your flexibility -both literally and figuratively. (I mean I’ll admit I was dumbfounded when I heard you could bend over and touch your forearms to the ground…that’s, well, just incredible.) But more than that, I admire how when you came to visit Jane and she had to go to an Artsbridge thing, you spent the whole day helping me with the kids. Seriously, THE. WHOLE. DAY. And it wasn’t like one of our best days, when the kids are angelic and I’m like extra sweet super mom. It was like a real day in the life. And you were so helpful and gracious.

I admire how you always notice when Scout and Hadley reach new milestones. You are always one of the first to celebrate me when Scout overcomes a speech hurdle or Hadley takes a wobbly step.

Photograph courtesy of http://www.markspoonerphoto.com

So, with all those amazing qualities wound together, it’s no surprise you are an incredible couple. My hope and prayer for you as you enter into the adventure of marriage together is that you always see each other as God sees us, or to make it a little less daunting…try and see each other kind of like how I saw Jane the first time I held her as a baby…noticing each tiny detail, wondering at her unique personality, and utter gratitude that her miraculous life was tied to mine. I am utterly grateful again this time that I get to experience a newborn marriage of two people I love grow and mature.

PS I think I need to give a shout out to Nick’s speech at the rehearsal dinner because it has now become James’ presedent for HIS obsession with eating frosted mini wheats without milk???!!!

PPS Anne and Pedro you are next.

Birthdays for days

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Thu, 10 Mar 2016 19:06:00 +0000

Confession:

I have spent the last 5 week and 72 hours trying to capture my kids in an Instagram worthy pose for their consecutive birthdays. God in his wisdom and knowledge knew that I fear and tremble about birthdays; the parties, the presents, the cakes/cupcakes and the decorations (or lack thereof). Even typing this I feel the anxiety rising into my throat. Urgh...Birthdays....soooooooo stressful!!! But so fun for kids. And I have to admit I have sucked the fun right out of many many memorable moments the past month or so trying to make them “better.”

Kids, listen, I LOVE YOU. I don’t say it enough because I’m weird and a New Englander and I have a serious complaining habit. But I. LOVE. YOU.

JWynn, I love your curiosity! You ask such good questions, and draw hilarious conclusions. For example, let it be written that you informed me just the other day, “Snakes have fangs to protect themselves from creditors.” Hmm. That could very well be true in addition to protecting themselves from predators.

Shout out to Monkey King Tea. (#mkt) You make our week.
Thanks for putting up with our Thursday morning invasions:)

I am honestly and totally amazed by your constant and superhuman levels of energy. You are incredible. You can probably run a mile faster than I can and then want to play tag afterwards. Even I, your mother, am still shocked by the things you manage to climb (the built in pantry shelves for example.)

You love Jesus and really trust him. I am convicted whenever I tell you something sad because you want to pray immediately. It’s true, there is no reason to wait to pray. And whenever you get hurt you always call out for God’s help even before me or Dad. I love that, because I won’t always be there but God will.

Falling Hard

Princessa Harpinha...where do I begin? If I was three I would ask you to be my best friend because you are so fun and funny. Where do you get this comedic timing or these sarcastic faces? Please forgive me for not disciplining you consistently due to the fact that you make me laugh too hard.

And yes, your hair really is as beautiful as you think it is. Don’t get vain about it but it literally does “gleam and glow” (as you’ve informed us through song- thank you Tangled soundtrack). You are incredibly patient as I brush it and attempt to braid it every morning.

I think what I thank God for the most though is your affection toward others. The fact that you always ask your brother, “You okay bud?” when he falls down. Or stuff a binky in your sister’s mouth when she is crying. You look out for others and want to make sure they are as happy as you are. Thank you for your infectious joy.

Olivita, my baby. It’s hard to describe how much I just adore your face! Your smiles are the best part of any day. You light up a whole room.

Where did she even find this clementine?

Your endurance amazes me. You have let more doctors and specialists poke and prod you than I ever would and you remain sweet despite it all. I know you are hurting a lot of the time but you have a joi de vivre that inspires me.

I wish I could make life easier for you but I am comforted by the knowledge that you will always be strong and brave. I can;t ait to see you blow all our minds when you figure out walking and talking! It’s always an adventure with you.

So, happy birthday one and all:)

Delicious Dichotomy

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Tue, 09 Feb 2016 02:03:00 +0000

This month, I had the honor of writing for the House and Home issue of The Prodigal Chair. (http://www.prodigalschair.com )

The name of the piece is "Delicious Dichotomy." It s about many things, including but not limited to:

Which I love and highly recommend!

Which I love and hate.

Please check it out. I've been out of commission for a while so I'd love to get some comments:)

Through the Eyes of Grief

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Thu, 19 Nov 2015 03:41:00 +0000

Thank goodness for the Writer's Collaborative in my city otherwise I might never get words down on paper. Our leader gave us a prompt called:

"Sweet And Sour"

Her instructions were to: Describe briefly a lake or a backcountry mountain trail (in other words, a beautiful natural setting) as seen by a person who has just lost a parent in a sudden, unexpected death. The last time this narrator saw the parent, they argued violently. In your narrative do not mention the death, the parent, or the argument. Do not tell a story. Simply show us what the lake or forest or street looks like to someone under these circumstances. 500 words.

When I was small we used to vacation up at Squam Lake in NH. Those are some of my best memories but I also remember being terrified of the loons up there. That terror is nothing compared to how I would feel about losing one of my parents. I thought the loon was also an appropriate symbol because I would probably lose my mind if I lost my parents. So, without furthur ado, here is what I came up based on this very very difficult prompt:)

At dusk, a loon broke the water of Big Squam Lake. His slick black and white coat stained the ripples with incongruous contrast. It’s said that loons love shiny things. If they encounter a human they’re likely to gouge out the eyes first, fixated on the gleam. The teeth are next, depending on what condition they are in. This loon had recently killed at least three minnows devouring the meat along with the sheen of their scales.

The sun was setting now and the light made even the roughest rocks shimmer. The water slid off the loon’s back, eager to get away from his violence. The loon dove again, slicing the dark water, pretending to disappear, only to pierce the surface just as the turmoil had settled. A trout hung limply from his beak. The bird’s eyes glittered like garnets. The beak itself shone and dripped. Each drop sunk back into the wake as the loon made his way to a pine needled shore.

The yellowing sheaths of pine plants stuck to the bird’s flippers. He threw the trout to the ground with a thud. Dander of the wooded beach exploded upon the impact of the big fish. It’s dead eyes no longer had a gleam but the beak of the crazed loon shot through the socket nonetheless. The dagger beak then went to work impaling the body of the catch. The gills ripped apart, the liver wrenched out, the heart cleaved into several pieces. The red eyes served as fierce sentinels as the loon tore the body into mangled chum.

The water lapped up to the blood soaked ground. The remains attracted only scavengers. They circled above, crept and crawled from below. The loon did not bother to fight them off. He turned away and returned to the glassy water. The shore looked much as it had before, but the hum of scrounging insects twisted the land. The smell of fish just before rot drew crowds of vermin to the darkening waterfront. The water too seemed unaltered but the war wail of the red eyed loon reverberated across the lake. The warbling wail warned children to shut their eyes tight, to shroud that fatal gleam. It commanded them to close their mouths around their pearly teeth, to protect their new found smiles.

Night was fully formed on Big Squam Lake. The loon’s white flecks reflected the moonlight and his black feathers faded into the shadows cast across the water. Still, the gleam of red shone from his eyes and he wailed until the trout was nothing but a skeleton waiting to be bleached by the sun. He called into small hours and beyond. He whooped against the water that held him afloat. And his signal went out to others, whose red eyes shone and whose voices hailed back the wail of the loon.

The Animated Kiss

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Wed, 04 Nov 2015 02:13:00 +0000

One of the most enjoyable parts of raising children is reliving what have become mundane everyday events as exciting “firsts.”

I remember a friend telling me how awesome it was the first time her son saw a dog. I mean, yeah, dogs are crazy creatures and so getting a glimpse of a lab for the first time must have blown his mind. So, I try and watch out for these moments and while the trash truck is no longer the highlight of my oldest's week I am surprised by the things I forget he has never seen.

For example, when we watched his first Disney animated film with him , I, of course, picked my favorite; Beauty and the Beast. I want to instill at an early age that brains are better than brawn or beauty. I also wanted it to be extra educational so I rented it from the Library in Spanish. This was very confusing since the story is set in France. So we have like Frenglish going on. I’m pretty sure that most of the story was lost on him. But he loved the fight between Gaston and the Beast. He has a strong sense of justice but a tender heart so the Beast exposing Gaston for the coward that he is yet not dropping him to his death was just right to him. (Oops sorry spoiler alert).

But then, Gaston sneaks up on the Beast and stabs him to death. At this point I am a little uncertain about my choice to let him watch this. But it’s okay because Belle is by the Beast’s side and tells him she loves him before the last rose petal falls. Then, magic. I am not sure how to explain this to a (then) three year old, so I said it was a type of special medicine where they shoot light out of your extremities until you get better and an added benefit of this medical procedure is that if you are a Beast the light therapy transforms you into a long haired French prince. Again, keep in mind the movie is in Spanish and my son is 3 and not bilingual.

Next comes the part that I had totally blocked from my mind. G rated movies allow....gulp...animated kissing! Horror. What am I going to tell him about that? My husband and I are not the kissing in front of your kids or anyone or ever type so my palms are sweating like crazy. “Ugh No!!!” I inwardly cringe and imagine all the awkward questions that will likely ensue. All this as the Prince/Beast is spinning about.

And then Belle holds his face, and he brushes away a stray lock of her brown hair. The music crescendos. Inwardly, I am in a fetal position trying to think of a distraction but I can’t seem to find my voice. And then they kiss. And somehow Disney makes the animated kiss just as sensual as a human one. Their faces are practically one. It seems to be lasting for at least 10 minutes. I still can’t think of anything to say. Then, at last it’s over and everyone is happy and all I can mutter is, “Why would they do that?” Like I don’t know what a kiss is. Like I haven’t conceived three children. My approach is to play dumb.

What is that weird face smashing? Must be part of the strange firework light therapy.

Let’s never speak of this again.

(Probably another bad mom moment)

Based on Prompt #2 from my writer's collaborative...Say It With a Kiss

Kissing uses all five senses, which makes it an extremely sensuous act. It is a beginning and an end—the kiss hello and the kiss good-bye. There are a variety of romantic puckers (passionate, wet, teasing, rough, slow), as well as thrown-across-the-room kisses, tentative kisses, friendly pecks, and the reluctant ones that children give relatives or parents' friends. The poet Tess Gallagher's book Portable Kisses evokes a buffet of smooches.

Your first kiss is often etched in memory, and so is the solitary, experimental kind that you may have practiced on your arm, your pillow, or up against the mirror. Do you remember when you first found out French kissing involved touching tongues? I thought I would gag if I tried it, and I couldn't figure out how adults, who were forever concerned about germs, would willingly do something that seemed even more likely to spread a cold than drinking from someone else's soda bottle.

Write about kissing. Besides being fun to write about, it is an especially good practice for writing scenes between two people. (Approximately 500 words)

Bad Mom

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Tue, 27 Oct 2015 01:30:00 +0000

Prompt #1 from The Writing Collaborative

"Word Choice: One Syllable Words

Write a response (fiction, nonfiction, a scene, a description of a person or place, ect.) that is roughly 500 words and is made up of ONLY one syllable words. This exercise highlights the importance of word choice and pushes the limits of your vocabulary. You may even have to break out a thesaurus! "

When we walk, arms full of books, I try to keep my kids with me. But right now the boy is out in front and the girl is way far back. I am torn in two. I yell at the far one, call to the slow one and then turn my eyes to the baby I hold and my phone.

Her eyes are closed. A smile plays on her small lips. I grin and try to take a shot of her sweet small face when an old maid walks by. Her hat is fur and her eyes dark lined.

“Get off your phone and get your kids!” She snarls my way. Her paint red lips look cracked.

I look in front, I look back. Where I saw smiles and slow walks I now see the rush and threat of the busy street. My heart beats with shame.

“Witch,” I think (but with a B), but I know she is right and it hurts. My shame grows. I feel the title mom turn into the curse “fraud.” I cringe and call once more to my small one who has run out in front. I turn off my phone to grab the one in back.

But, a new plain clothes judge gets off the bus and shouts, “Whose kid is this? Where is her mom? It is a shame, a shame the way some moms don’t seem to care.”

“She’s with me,” I call, “She’s okay.” My girl smiles and takes short strides my way. But she is too close to the bus. She may fall or worse this new rat may snatch her up.

“It is not okay” comes the reply from the cavy queen. She vents her shock and rage. I reel from the force of her cold call down. Much of what she says is true. Risks I can not count come to mind. I can not keep them safe. Three is more than I can watch all at once. What can I do? I am flawed. I fail. At last, she gives me a shake of the head and a silent boo.

I can not move. A pain grabs my heart and my breath is short and weak.

My kids still smile and make their way at their own pace. The fast boy stops in his tracks at the red WAIT hand and the slow one hops over each crack. I love them all so bad it hurts.

I start to breath a slow plea to God to give me grace, to help me just to be. I ask the Son of God to let me take one step and then the next. I ask Him to take the blame, the guilt, the fear that hold my feet in stone blocks.

And He is there. He is real. I pick up my small girl and hug her tight. I walk to my first born son and hold his hand. I look at my baby’s face and her eyes are still closed in peace and sleep.

Writing Update

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Wed, 21 Oct 2015 18:53:00 +0000

Here is a letter I wrote to my friend a few days ago. As I was writing I felt like I was writing to everyone who reads this blog, so I decided to post it.

Hey--
So it has been entirely too long since we talked! We need to catch up.

No word on my Glimmer Train submission but I have been writing. I hope you have been too! If there is one thing I've learned from reading "The Artist's Way" this summer, it is that everyone has something to say. I mean you can paint it, glue it, dance it, sing it or write it but I (mostly) loved the challenge of writing 3 pages every day. It definitely forced me to be more disciplined about writing. And it opened my eyes to the opportunities all around me. Most of them are at the library which I love! #nerdalert

I was really wishing you were with me tonight because it was the very first meeting of the Writer’s Collaborative I joined!!! The way it is set up is in a workshop style which means each time we meet we have all read one person’s piece (at least twice) and written comments. The one we read tonight was a totally spooky Stephen King-like horror story. I actually liked it which is very unlike me because usually blood and gore are not my thing. Probably the closest thing I’ve read to “horror” is Harry Potter.

But this workshop was such a cool experience. Everyone got there super early. I was on time (which for me now that I have three kids is super early) but I was the last one there. Plus we had a prompt that we could write about as optional homework and everyone did it but me!!! Help me not become a slacker. The prompt was...

Word Choice: One Syllable Words

Write a response (fiction, nonfiction, a scene, a description of a person or place, ect.) that is roughly 500 words and is made up of ONLY one syllable words. This exercise highlights the importance of word choice and pushes the limits of your vocabulary. You may even have to break out a thesaurus!

Anyways, I really need to get serious and write something that I can put up for critique. I mean it takes courage to write but then to sit (silently) in a room while 20 people discuss what they thought was awesome and what they found to be BS (baloney and salami) takes a real solid backbone. The main thing I loved about the format was that it was like being in a book discussion and in a writing seminar at the same time. I was reading really good writing (almost everyone in the group is published, excepted yours truly #pennedbutnotpublished.blogspot.com) and learning new writing techniques like new ways to hook my reader.

So my next blog post will be my stab at the one syllable story prompt. Until then....onward and upward!

( And I'm always looking for guest writers, so shoot me whatever you are working on if you get a chance:)

Hold My Hand! Actually, Please Don’t By Jane Dietrich

noreply@blogger.com (kd simington) — Fri, 02 Oct 2015 17:22:00 +0000

Our blogger this week is my sister, the sculptor, writer and one of my favorite guests on this blog (and in real life:)

Check out more of her work at www.janedietrichart.com

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I’m walking along the sidewalk hand in hand with the man I love. It’s a beautiful day; 75 degrees and sunny. A light breeze carries the songs of the birds above to our ears. Our arms swing slightly with each step, telling the world “Hey! Look at this hottie. I’m dating him!”

Yet, something feels off. Is it the growing clamminess of my palm? No…(though that is a bit embarrassing). Is it that our steps aren’t quite in sync? I suppose, but there’s something more.

It’s the feeling that I’m not centered. My internal compass feels askew. I want to walk a bit more to the right, but then he would be falling off the curb. Isn’t that better than me scraping my arm against the wall? Don’t I deserve to dodge pedestrians coming the other way on my own time?!

Suddenly claustrophobia sets in.

The buildings are too close.

But on the other side l’ll run into the parking meters!

Our pace is too fast,

now too slow.

CAN’T YOU LET ME WALK AT MY NORMAL CADENCE?? People say I have a walk that is “so me”.

WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO CHANGE ME INTO SOMEONE I’M NOT!?

Suddenly, the sidewalk situation morphs into a metaphor for my life. The spiral downward picks up speed.

Is this what marriage is going to be like? Never having my own space? Always touching? If I can’t get over this, how will I ever make it through a lifetime with you?!

More importantly, WHY ARE YOU MAKING MY HANDS SO SWEATY?!

Now remember, I am madly in love with this guy and usually love him holding my hand. But there’s something about the sidewalk. It just doesn’t seem to be made for two. I need some independence here people.

So there I am walking, internally freaking the hell out while Hunter observes how beautiful the clouds are. Lost in my angst,

I trip.

Our grasp tightens and I don’t make a complete fool of myself. I snap back to reality.

I do love him. I do want to hold his hand. I can use my words like a five year old and ask to not hold hands for a hot sec. It doesn’t mean we won’t last together. When it comes down to it, I would always choose holding his hand than not having the option.

It is nice to walk on the sidewalk together… but sometimes, let’s not hold hands.