Breathe Chick

Everyday is a Good Day to Talk Mental Health

2020-10-10T15:27:00.000-04:00

Every.Single.Day is a good day to talk about mental health, but today is World Mental Health Day. It's a day meant to raise awareness about, well, mental health. So, let's do just that.

Talking about mental health can be uncomfortable. It's itchy and private and can make us feel weird when it comes up in conversation. Sometimes we only share it with those who are close enough to us that we feel they won't judge. We will openly talk about our diabetes or high blood pressure, but we clam up when mental health issues start to float into our conversations. Why is that?

In reality, there's lots of us walking around who are trying to manage our mental health. According to the American Psychiatric Association, 20% of us are impacted by it. Ya'll, that's one out of every five people. Put yourself in a room with 10 people, and at least one other person is in your shoes. Imagine a room of 100 people: now you have 19 other friends feeling like you. You are not alone with this. Depending on which population statistic you use, you are actually in the company of about 63,125,500 other Americans. Yeah, very much not alone even though it can feel that way.

I've always been a person full of fears since I was a small child. Maybe I came wired this way or maybe I heard things as a small child that fed my normal, healthy fears until they became fears on steroids. Maybe it was a combination of both. Who knows. On some plane it's important; on another, maybe it's not. Either way, that tendency coupled with some really crappy, traumatic life experiences morphed into a blazing case of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

Generally speaking (see what I did there?!), GAD is random worrying about everything for no damn reason. It's wondering what would happen if you have a heart attack while you're driving. It's thinking you might be allergic to a new food, so you avoid it. It's not going to concerts because the balcony might fall. It's questioning every word you said in a conversation. Sometimes you don't even know why it creeps up like some damn ear worm singing crappy polka music at 2am.

It's different for all of us because no one has the same wiring or the same life experiences. It stands to reason that treatment would vary as well. For some, medication is the key; for others, therapy is bliss. It might be a combo of both. Therapy has been a lifesaver for me. It took some trial and error, and it was hard to push through and keep it up sometimes. Some days it lifts me and other days it drains me. I cry some visits and some I just chill. I'm always better when I leave, though, and each visit makes me a little happier. I don't know that I'll ever stop because it's just what helps me.

Taking care of our mental health is more than a spa day or a mani/pedi. Those are great parts, but it's okay to need more. You absolutely are not weak or broken for taking care of this part of your body. If we don't take care of our mental health, it eventually affects our physical health, so it's just as important (or maybe more important than) our annual physical with the doctor. Take the time to just sit with yourself and think through how you are feeling emotionally and psychologically. Think about if you're okay with how you're feeling and if you like what you "see" there. Hopefully you're ecstatic with what you come up with, but it's okay to decide you want to make some changes or look for improvement. That's what taking care of our mental health looks like. Sometimes we can do that on our own, but sometimes we need a helper to make those changes.

Above all, be kind to yourself. The world is hard enough as it is right now without us beating ourselves even more. It's okay to reach out. Matter of fact, I think it's a sign of true strength when someone says, "Hey, I need some help right now." We all need a helping hand somewhere along the way.

On this World Mental Health Day 2020, let's start normalizing mental health conversations and care. Let's make it less cringy to reach out for help. Let's shift the stereotype so no one has to suffer alone. Sending each of you love and joy.

For more info: National Alliance on Mental Illness

For more info: Mental Health

For more info: WHO

A Day in the Life During a Pandemic, Day Five(ish)

2020-03-29T11:15:00.003-04:00

Today is Sunday, March 29, and I just finished watching church on YouTube. That sounds crazy saying that. I appreciate what churches are doing so, so much, but it doesn't feel the same. It's like going on vacation and having to wear someone else's bathing suit because you forgot yours. It'll do, but it's not yours. That said, I'm certainly not in the pew every Sunday. I've made excuses...and not very good ones. When this is over, I will strive to do better because I realize the feeling I get from being with others in worship. I hope I will remember to not take this opportunity for granted.

To be honest, I don't know what to believe and not believe anymore. Currently New York is considered the epicenter with 55,000 confirmed cases. Nationally, the cdc.gov website is showing confirmed numbers at slightly over 103,000 and almost 1,700 deaths. It seems, according to statistics, to be affecting everyone regardless of age. Several significant world figures, such as Prince Charles, also have confirmed cases. It does seem to be commonly accepted knowledge that we do not have enough supplies anywhere.

We experienced this locally just recently. Our two local hospitals, Laughlin Memorial and Takoma, were bought (acquired, whatever.) by Ballad Health. There were LOTS of hard feelings about this, mainly because their billing consolidation was totally crap and many people got duplicate bills, were sent to collections, and basically treated horribly. They soon shut down one of the hospitals because they couldn't justify keeping it open. The beds were empty, which means they aren't generating any money. When we're healthier as a nation, we don't need as many resources, such as beds, respirators, etc. In a pandemic? I bet we wish we could go back in time and stock up for a rainy day. Healthcare, imo, is not where you live on the edge of "just what we need" and hope for the best.

Anywho, for some, it's becoming a partisan "he said, she said" where we are creating a deeper divide among political lines in hopes to drive votes in the upcoming Presidential election. At this point, I just want us to be healthy. I don't care what your party is as long as you stay home as much as possible.

I got to Zoom with my people on Friday night. There are six of us, and we've been the bestest of friends since we were in elementary school. It was so amazing to "see" everyone. We talked about our fears some, but we tried to just catch up on how everyone is staying busy. I can't wait to actually seem them in person and hug each of them. We're generally not huggers, but oh, well. Each of them is getting a big ol' hug when I can see them again!

So...I think everyone collectively hit the wall yesterday. Many of my friends and social media peeps seemed to be dealing with a lot. Most of us have generally been along the lines of "yeah, this isn't fun, but we're doing okay." Yesterday, lots of people were not okay.

I woke up from a crappy night of sleep where I had dreamed of continuous struggle: I was fighting uphill (literally and figuratively) in my dreams. (My dreams have always been very vivid and I usually remember them fairly well. When they're funny, they're hilarious. When they're not....they're paralyzing.) I got up and realized my anxiety had climbed through the roof while I was sleeping (sneaky that way), and now King Kong was sitting on my chest. I notice when my anxiety is up, I do all my breathing in my chest instead of belly breathing. It's stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course, then I started thinking it was the beginning of Corona, which then amps the anxiety up even more.

I finally took myself to the couch to read. After an hour or so, my body seemed to give in to the exhaustion that follows an anxiety spike for me, and I slept. Three hours later I woke and felt some better. It took awhile for the "electrical" current to subside (it's a weird vibration in my body when my anxiety is up), but I was okayish by evening. Hidden Figures was on, so I watched it and let myself relax.

Lots of people were in the same place as I was yesterday. When we read/see/hear the news from other parts of the country, it can be overwhelming. In some ways, the waiting game of "when will it get here" is utterly exhausting. We still have 8 cases, but I feel certain that number will increase as results from testing start to come back to hospitals. One of my dear friends works in healthcare and she had to work with a patient who was potentially positive. I can't imagine how overwhelming that must feel for all of our healthcare workers. We are truly living in this moment that will forever change who many of us are as professionals. I don't know what healthcare will look like in the future. Will people choose to study this in school? Will we face an even greater shortage because of the horror stories we are hearing?

I hope everyone is trying to be kind. That is what I hope. The emotional toll this is extracting on each of us is huge. I wish I had a more eloquent word, but that is it. This is a beast draining our emotional reserves, and we need to be aware of this as we interact with one another. I can't make someone stay home, but my berating and screaming won't make it happen, either. I wish our leaders would step in and make everyone shelter-in-place (re: keep your rear at home), but I know others are afraid of this being the beginning of the gov't stripping away personal freedoms. I don't know where I sit on that fence. Today I think if people can't behave appropriately during this, lives are maybe more important than a person's freedom to hang out at the bar on Friday with 50 of his/her closest friends. Everyone can choose to be an a-hole during this, but your character is revealed by choosing to place others' well-being before your own desires to head out to the Hobby Lobby.

Here's what I mean:

www.extranewsfeed.com

I think we can do this. Really I do.

To all those out there struggling: You are not alone. It's normal to feel anxious, sad, grief, anger, rage, shock, fear... All the human emotions are really up for grabs right now. Be kind to yourself and others as we walk this new path.

A Day in the Life During a Pandemic, Day Three

2020-03-25T12:25:00.000-04:00

Here we are...again.

It's strange how there is nothing new going on, yet, the whole world is changing in the blink of an eye. All in all, we are doing well as a human people. There are some pockets of ugliness, but there will always be those. I saw a video of a neighborhood in Atlanta cheering as healthcare workers were going into work. It made my heart race and my eyes water as I watched because I knew that action came from a place of love.

There's lots of us living with anxiety on the daily, but it's worrisome how that looks for us in these times. I giggled when I saw a meme that said "This is what those of us living with anxiety have been preparing for!" That is true in some ways! My anxiety tends to spiral down the "what if?" lane....What if I have a heart attack while driving? What if the house catches on fire in the middle of the night? What if? What if? What if?

Some people fear how self-quarantining/social distancing will impact those with mental health issues. I don't have a good answer for this. It's a damned if you do, damned if you don't situation. I worry about those who are struggling, and I try to reach out through FaceBook or texts. I don't know that's enough evidence for me to abandon the guidelines. So, if you have people in your life who may be struggling, take the time to check on them. It won't take a second, but it might be the best thing you ever do for them. Matter of fact, check on everyone. We all need to feel loved and connected right now.

I have not been as rattled as I thought I would be. I calmly prepared what I thought we'd need. (No, I didn't hoard anything. I have a reasonable amount for my family and that is all. Pinkie promise.) I thought out what our days might look like and got things together. Now, being honest, I got sidetracked by "Love is Blind" on Netflix when Abby Wambach mentioned it on a post. I haven't gotten up when I planned. I only walked one day. I haven't read any complete books. Lordy, I still have a People magazine I haven't cracked open! So, not what I had tried to plan, but I'm being kind to myself.

This morning I had a strange thought: Our house, which we all love, is becoming confining. Not quite a prison, but I wonder if we'll feel differently about it when this is over. I am grateful we are here and not spread out across the country, but the walls can become smaller as the days continue to pass. The weather has been excessively rainy, so I am hopeful tomorrow will be a good day to bask in the sunshine.

There were roughly 40,000 new cases from 3/16/2020 to 3/23/2020 according to the CDC. That's insane to me. Our town is up to 5 cases, all of whom traveled together over spring break at the beginning of March. There may be more since I last checked. I try not to check the numbers too frequently because, ya know, I worry more.

There's lots of Zoom (video conferencing) going on right now. As far as education, school districts run the gamut from "no instruction/try to rest/read a book" to "HERE'S YOUR FULL 8 HOURS OF INSTRUCTION DUE BY 4PM!!!" There is lots of craziness out there right now for how to deliver education.

My fear (because equity is my jam) is there will be places where the divide is widened even further by access to educational resources during this time. My district talks about equity frequently, but it has been part of every discussion we've had related to COVID-19. I don't know that others are doing this, and it breaks my heart. We don't all live in homes full of books or with access to unlimited internet. We can't fix that right now, but we do need to bear that in mind as we move forward.

So that is all for Day 3. I'm going to go clean something just to move around. I have some books to read. I bought a beautiful paint-by-numbers, so I can do that. One day, someone will purchase this at a garage sale and think they've discovered some rare, exceptionally talented artist only to learn it's a middle-aged woman's kit painting, and all their retirement plans in Tahiti are washed away!

Shout out to my husband and our anniversary being today! There's no one else I'd rather be self-quarantined with than him!!

A Day in the Life During a Pandemic, Day 2

2020-03-24T10:04:00.002-04:00

And just like that...I missed a day.

Quick summary of yesterday: We moved G-Money out of her dorm. It was her freshman year, and it seemed sad and anti-climactic when we loaded up the car. On a mid-sized campus, we did not see one other human being until we pulled away from the curb and a woman pulled in behind us. It was eerie, but we were also grateful people weren't out. We got a weird sense of safety in being alone.

We had made a "final list" to get at the grocery store. In some ways it feels like an epic snowstorm is coming, so you want all your comfort and fun foods. I bought crap I usually refuse to buy, like 5 different bags of chips, some butterscotch root beer that I'm sure rots your kidneys, and canned ravioli. Not disparaging the food/drink, but my children have no control over themselves and will pillage every single cabinet. Except G-Money...she's becoming a great cook during this time.

Interesting twist at the grocery store: You can buy all the chips and soft drinks you want, but you are not getting out of Publix with more than two frozen veggies or two packs of chicken. I have not hoarded or bought excessive surplus of anything and I've followed guidelines of enough food for 1-2 weeks. We're a family of 5, though, and 2 packs of chicken won't go far. Every single meat product except chicken drummies (wings) and some flavoring pieces was GONE. The upside of this is that the coolers are going to be so freaking clean when they finally get to restock. I did notice several people at the Ingles cleaning the coolers and shelves like pro bosses.

I give kudos to the grocery store employees during this. Many of them are young working for some pocket money (and I know others are basically supporting themselves); some are elderly working to supplement retirement and make ends meet. One thing both (probably) are is scared. My friend's daughter works at a big-box store and she is terrified. That said, I have only encountered smiles and kindness when we've been to the store. The smiles may be weary, but they have been genuine.

A word about self-quarantining...This is what we are trying to do. My kids are, shall we say, not exuberant. I told them that was normal to be annoyed, even pissed, at me and their dad for shutting down their life outside the house/yard. I would be, too, and I know I wouldn't have understood at all. Others are still having to work because their employers haven't made the call to close. I hope when this is over those employees are able to find more caring places of employment. I am not talking about essential workplaces; I am talking about places that could close and SHOULD close, but aren't.

What is our government doing? Hell if I know. It's very confusing because there are so many layers. Our local county mayor issued a statement about staying home, but our governor doesn't seem to have a spine. Although I don't remember where I saw the quote, in a nutshell he said you can't force people to stay home, so there was no point in issuing a statement to that affect. That, my readers, is weak leadership. (Maybe no leadership at all.) Your role as the leader of this state is to guide our state during this chaos. Other governors are doing it and all I've seen is appreciation from their people. Maybe I am wrong in not trusting people to do the right thing, but evidence so far has not suggested they will during this time, or at least not to the degree we need to slow this down. This is the equivalent of me throwing away all the kids' toothbrushes because I can't make them brush their teeth. Wanna bet? Yes, I can make them brush their teeth. Or not giving them a curfew because I can't force them to be home by that time. Really? You step in and STEP UP because you are the leader of our state. Literally, that is YOUR JOB!

I may have strongly negative feelings about our governor right now.

From a federal level, I think we've seen a lot of left-hand/right-hand conflict, but none of us living have faced a pandemic of this magnitude before. I try not to judge or be influenced by social media because there's lots of partisan play going on right now. I just want medical personnel to have the supplies they need and someone to figure out how to cure this. Yesterday the surgeon general (Dr. Jerome Adams) told everyone this week is going to get bad and everyone should stay home. This man seems squared away, so I hope people listen. Most states are seeing exponential increases in positive cases, which may be due to increased testing. The why is less important to me than how can we slow it down. All credible sources seem to point to self-quarantining when possible and social distancing if you have to go out.

Overall in our little town, someone said traffic was very light yesterday. I noticed very few people in the grocery store when we made our stop. Domestic violence is up because people are stuck in small spaces with other people. That's typical during long periods of being stuck at home. (Not normal...never is that normal.) One of the most frustrating parts right now is no one knows when it will be safe to go back to normal life, and there's no one to really answer that question at the moment. We can be mad, but there's no one person to be mad at currently.

I think back to my grandfather, who was born in 1914. He was 15 during the Great Depression, and he used to tell me stories about it. He was the best storyteller ever. Even the painful memories were brought to life with his voice. I think about how living through that changed him. I remember him telling me at every meal (they babysat me when my parents were working) I had with them, "There are children in China starving! Clean your plate!" He was never harsh or hateful (Let's be real: He moved from NY to TN just because I called him one day and told him my babysitter was mean.) I never knew how cleaning my plate was helping a Chinese child, but I realized as I got older he was trying to teach me appreciation for what I had. He had gone hungry. He had wondered where his next meal would come from. He had fought in a war where he believed with all his heart he wouldn't come home. I wonder how this will change my generation or my children's generation. What are the stories we will tell or the quirks we will adopt? There will be lasting changes for all of us in some way, I'm sure.

Everyone stay safe, wash hands, call a friend, read a book, walk in the yard...be well.

A Day in the Life During a Pandemic

2020-03-22T10:06:00.000-04:00

March 22, 2020

Well, here we are. A friend recently posted on social media that blogs and the like might serve as primary sources for future generations. Being that I like (okay, love) words, I thought this might be a good outlet for the next few weeks. My goal is to post daily or at least every other day. Pandemics can make your brain go places it's not used to visiting, and that can be, well, it can be hard.

So where is here? I'm in a small town in East Tennessee at the foot of the mountains. It's beautiful, although I sometimes forget to see the natural beauty in my everyday life. It's spring, so that means lots and lots of allergies for me. People are encouraging others to get out and go for walks, etc., but that seems like the worst idea possible for me right now. A good car ride might be in order. I'm social distancing from pollen right now.

My corner of the world is in the weird place of between right now. Physicians of our state are urging our governor to order a "shelter in place" order to help slow the spread of COVID-19, but he doesn't seem to be motivated. The result is lots and lots of "I don't know what to do" and that's not helping or calming anyone. Leadership shows up or falls apart in times of crisis, and I think he is falling into the latter category, sadly. People are wanting to self-quarantine at home, but they still have jobs to go to. Most people right now are encouraging everyone go to work (if they have to) and then go home. No extra trips anywhere except grocery and pharmacy. Hopefully common sense will prevail even if leadership doesn't chose to lead.

Life at our house? I have two teenagers and a tween.

The 16-years old boy is aggravated at times because "all my friends are going places!" That's when I get to break out the "I'M NOT THEIR MOMMA!" line. Overall, he is being flexible even if he gets bored at times.

The oldest just had her first year of college cut short, and we will move her out of her dorm this week. Being honest, I'm a little creeped out by having to go out among that much humanity, but she did a great job of bringing most things home at spring break. As an art major, we've had to get creative with a space for her to work, but we made a cool little corner in the basement that she can get dirty.

The tween is doing pretty well. She wants to read books to me, and that's super cool. We started Lemony Snickets last night, and I just got to chill while she read. She's already got an Amazon cart full of school supplies to prepare for distance learning, which is not guaranteed (the cart OR the distance learning.) She's all about some highlighters right now. I see a few weeks of board games.

The adults? Not sure where we are right now. I'm not panicked. I saw a meme that said this was what people with anxiety have been planning for their entire lives. True story. I have my moments, but when you're brain has lived in disaster land 24-7 for as long as you can remember, this is just another day. For the moment...I know this can change any second. I am having trouble reading books, which is sooooo not like me. I usually rip through them in a day or three at most. Not right now for some reason. I seem to be tethered to social media. Maybe it makes me feel more connected? I am trying to stay away from sensationalized, partisan news (is there still such a thing?!) and rely on cdc.gov information. So much unknown and we are all just responding in the moment.

My husband's job does not allow for him to be off work during this, and that won't change. I am not sure what that looks like for us. I can't imagine if he were exposed and had to quarantine away from us. I am a fixer by nature, and I can't fix this. That's sobering.

As of today we had one positive case, but as testing increases that number will increase. That's where my emotions start to unravel. What if it's people I know (and it will be)? How can I help take care of my parents and my in-laws? How will this affect my children long-term? Obviously there are feelings under the surface, but we're still in the "in between" where we know it's coming, but it's not here, yet. I am choosing informed bliss for the moment.

What I am loving at the moment is the beauty I am seeing in others. Sure, there are pockets of ugly and greed. People are being snippy on social media (and taking things way too personally) and some purchased massive (MASSIVE) amounts of supplies to gouge buyers on later, but there are beautiful, wonderful, amazing things happening. People are being kind by getting groceries for others; people are taking time to slow down and wave to neighbors; kids are playing outside; people are, in general, helping....just like Mr. Rogers said they would.

Twelve and Twenty-Six...

2017-12-21T10:54:00.001-05:00

Twelve.

I was twelve once and I seem to remember it fondly. I think I had a boyfriend for a hot second, but I know I had great friends. Maybe not the greatest fashion sense, but I spent lifetimes pouring over fashion magazines and believing there'd be a day I'd create such iconic ads. For real, who doesn't remember the Guess ads of the 80s?! I'd bet that boyfriend I had for a hot second probably does...

Twenty-six.

I was twenty-six once, and I definitely remember it fondly. Parts of it anyway...It was more great swells of overwhelming happiness tempered with harrowing troughs of survival. That was the year I was introduced to my Grace. I have no doubt God knew exactly what he was doing when He sent her to me. God's light, indeed.

Twelve and twenty-six.

Twenty-six symbols: A ballet of strokes on paper that dance into words and leap into sentences and spin into stories of joy, despair, life, death, laughter, and tears. Some use these to create characters we love as our own and dream of knowing in real life. Journeys we can only experience by turning to the next page. On our own, we write love through these symbols and say goodbye through these symbols. We construct hate-filled diatribes and then, hopefully, ask for forgiveness with the same twenty-six symbols we just used to inflict hurt. Twenty-six symbols shaping our existence.

Twelve notes weave themselves together through the artists who hear the music before it's brought to life. They tell stories, too, but ones without words. Twelve symbols stirring the cauldron of emotions dwelling inside us, making us feel. Whispering notes and crashing notes. Roller coaster rides where you never leave your seat. Memories entwined with the sounds from the car speakers. Dances in the kitchen with the one who was brave enough to say, "I do." Wails of "Amazing Grace" as loved ones are laid to rest. A soundtrack serenading our existence.

I am one of those people who breathes in books when I read them. Some have affected me so much I've never read them again; others I read a couple of times a year. I love the characters they have shared with us and the words they cast upon the universe. Sometimes those words were all that carried me.

Music is in the same league. I get goosebumps when I hear certain notes plucking away and I'm transported to somewhere where everything is right in life. I listen to the sounds and marvel how they are woven together as the most delicate tapestry into songs. Sometimes when it's late and my brain has been driven past its capacity, I lie in bed and the notes of a distant song carry me to sleep. It's rare and I know it means it's time to rest, but it carries me away and my anxieties are left behind.

As I walked through Biltmore house with my daughters a few nights ago, a lady behind us made repeated remarks how all the art was tacky. She eventually (and thankfully) decided she was tired of being "herded like cattle" and cut her tour short. I was sad for her (although still grateful for her absence!) that she could not appreciate the beauty of standing in the library filled with books and priceless works of art. As I walked through there, I could hear laughter and tinkling notes of crystal stemware making toasts while music played in the background of the grand gatherings. Maybe it's my crazy imagination, but I'd much rather have that experience than to hear nothing.

Twelve notes and twenty-six symbols carrying me through life.

A Tiny House? Totally. Or Not. No, Maybe Not.

2017-07-13T18:52:00.003-04:00

So, that whole tiny house thing...I've been thinking about it and I think I would be awesome at it. As long as I had about 900 square feet of storage somewhere to put my stuff. Ya' know, all that stuff I can sorta live without, but not really so it has to stay somewhere if I decide I might need it again. Important things like the decorative pillows off my bed from 1983. You think I'm kidding, but you'd be wrong.

In my quest to convince my husband (aka financial partner) this is a great idea for retirement, I often strategically turn on various tiny house shows when we're watching television. I comment on how crafty they are about utilizing space and how the people who live there must be, like, total zen 24/7 because they have simplified their lives and gotten rid of "stuff" that clutters their visual fields and lives. I brag about how I could (probably) totally do this and that I'm really just trapped in all this furniture and "stuff" because of my children and preserving their memories. Really, I could totally do this.

He thinks I'm am overestimating myself. Like, a lot.

Understand he lived in the same house basically his whole entire life. I love that idea of the family homestead, but mine is like the white farmhouse with the attic full of trunks that bulge with family secrets Wide porches and haint ceilings...grand staircases children will tumble down as toddlers and sweep down as brides or grooms. (Of course all the children will get married there. Duh.) I made this dream up when I was younger and we looked at a house much like this, except it had some weeds growing up through the baseboards and I'm pretty rats were the only thing tumbling down the stairs at that time. So it needed some love. Don't we all?

We moved a lot when I was a kid, but we never left our town. Might I add that "town" is about 17 square miles. From about age three until graduating from high school, we moved five times, and lived in one house twice. (I guess we just wanted to make sure it really wasn't the house for us.) We moved several more times before I turned three, but I have no idea how many. I kept the family tradition alive and kicking by moving several times myself after becoming a tax-paying adult with a mortgage (or rent, depending...)

I use my history of geographical dexterity and mad packing skillz to further my case. Then it begins. His rational investigative inquiry.

"So, what about the piano?"

"What are you going to do with that couch?"

"You can't keep that secretary."

GAH!!!

If you came to visit me, you'd basically walk into a museum of our lives Kitchen table is his grandparents'...Living room furniture is an olio of my grandmother's secretary, a piano from a great-aunt (I think?) on my dad's side, a couch my parents grabbed off the side of the road about 40 years ago, and a chair I remember my mom buying at an auction that was stuffed with hay and blue jeans (it's all about the vision)...Bedroom furniture came from various grandparents...children all sleeping in beds passed down from other generations of our peeps. Literally, if you have a piece of furniture that was at some time in my family, I'll probably take it even if I don't need or want it. I have designated myself the family caretaker of all furniture forevermore apparently.

When I think of getting rid of this "stuff" to go tiny or at least get some zen into my life and reduce my "visual clutter", I get a little queasy in my gut...kinda like when you've eaten a fat, greasy burger dripping with cheese and a HUGE serving of greasy, hand-cut french fries slathered in ketchup and the server brings you a homemade, four-layer chocolate cake with about 3 inches of icing so sweet your teeth ache and you eat it, too, because you can't NOT eat it and besides it would be rude to not eat it when the server was kind enough to bring it to you and all. Yeah, that kind of queasy.

It's just stuff, but it's my stuff. It's my memories and my childhood and my stories. When I walk into my son's room and see the bedroom suite of my grandparents', I think about how much my Pepaw would've loved to have met my son and how alike they are. The secretary holds my books now, but I remember the things it used to keep safe. I have two brass keys: one belonged to my aunt and one to my grandmother. They hang on my wall just as they did on theirs. I know we only have 7 chairs to our table because Daddy Frank got mad and tossed the broken one. These are the stories of my stuff.

I wish I could be one of those people who could make those decisions to downsize and lovingly pass along furniture to others (or sell it at a yard sale and make some dineros). But I can't. Maybe it's because we moved so much and this is my connection. My homestead is not the walls and floors of a house where I lived, but it is the furniture that provided a constant while I grew up. I raise immortal hell on my mother when she even remotely mentions getting rid of the kitchen table I grew up with because it's riddled with etchings of my youth. Granted, I let her paint it a few years ago, but still. I won because it's STILL THERE!!! I never lived in the house where my parents now live, but it's still a home to me because it's filled with things that tug at my memories and bring a smile to my face. I'm afraid if they go away, my memories will fade.

So, yeah, can I go tiny? Yes. Yes, I can. I can totally live in a 500 square foot or less home (okay, not less than 300 cause that's just asking for a divorce) and be happy. I can embrace sitting on my tiny porch and pondering the meaning of life while letting zen wash over me. I could live without a bathtub and fold my kitchen table down from the wall. All these things are possible.

As long as my tiny house is in my backyard and all my stuff is waiting inside my house next door waiting for someone to ask, "Where in the world did you get this?!" "That?! Oh, it's the funniest story! Let me tell you about it..."

Counting Sheep and Weighing the World...A Teacher's Night

2016-11-10T21:00:00.000-05:00

One sheep...Two sheep...Three sheep...

I crawl into bed, fluff the geriatric pillow into place and peck the on button for the alarm clock. Then I slowly try to shut-off the valves in my mind. I think how I should have walked on the treadmill. I think how I should have graded one more set of papers. I think how I can fit onemorething on my plate. I think and I think and I think...

You ask what keeps me up at night? When darkness envelopes the room and moonlight creeps through the shade...when eyelashes slowly weave into one another and breathing paces a slow, peaceful rhythm?

It is me, asking why my alphabet was suddenly mixed into my numbers and being told to sit down and just do it. It is my friend, being called into the office because he was chasing a girl who just didn't look like him. It is my brother, surviving as a round peg pounded into a square hole.

What keeps me up at night is what I see...snapshots of lives...vignettes of tomorrows shaped by todays...because as water shapes the rock, we shape the by and by of those who pass through our care.

It is my firstborn: smart, sassy, and a little smart-assy. Graceful and full of God's grace, but not so great with ones, twos, and threes. Oh, but give her a pencil and witness the gift flow from her. Where does she fit in a world of AP and Honors? When art is her language, but everyone else's tongue is data and algorithms and procedures, what future do we paint for her?

What keeps me up at night is the young girl swirling through life, grasping at willow branches, smiling and shining and singing and working and reaching and then...gone. Plucked from her day and herded and shuffled into strange places with strangers...strangers trusted with her heart and soul and safety...No longer the girl reaching and smiling, but a girl with a casefile and a social worker. Gone.

It is a brown-skinned girl rushing into the room, tears caught on the tops of her apple cheeks and eventually cascading down her face. Because someone called her black and black is ugly to her and she'd give anything to step out of her skin in that moment, but none of us can. We can change our hair, our eyes, our job, our spouse, but we are forever in our skin and her's is itchy and uncomfortable at that moment.

What keeps me up at night is greatness...greatness I was fortunate enough to receive and witness. It was teachers giving and giving and giving of time and wisdom and energy. Souls laid bare every day...sacrificing so much so I could arrogantly waltz through their classrooms stealing bits and pieces of their knowledge without so much as a thank-you.

So, while others slumber and dream, I lie wistfully thinking and thinking and thinking about how I can sell the great dream of education and knowledge to children who are poor in love and short on time, about how I can cast the net farther than the last day, about how I can...So I check the alarm clock one more time and begin to count again until, finally, at last, sleep rescues me.

The Health Chronicles, Vol. 2...Apparently You ARE What You Eat

2015-06-22T22:35:00.001-04:00

I know, I know. You already know this. I did, too. I've read it a million times and all the research to go along with it, but it was so easy to fall off that damn wagon. I mean, really, who doesn't love all those things that are oh-so-tasty? Fresh doughnuts dripping with sugary glaze? Fresh pasta with creamy, cheesy sauce? Homemade ice cream on top of chunky chocolate brownies dripping with caramel sauce straight outta the sauce pan? S'more?! I see you drooling.

I've learned a lot in the last month. Mostly I've learned that there are some slow doctors out there. No disrespect intended, but I could have incubated a baby before some doctors are able to get me an appointment. Because of this, I've had plenty of time to read up on inflammation. Lots of time...which is good because there is lots to read...apparently anyone can write a book. Who knew?

One thing that keeps showing up is how much inflammation is related to diet. I had an intuitive (don't laugh; a nearby metropolis employed him for murder cases!) tell me to stay away from all white foods. I laughed, but I'd bet he's the one laughing now. Apparently white flour, white sugar, white potatoes, etc. are my kryptonite. Shocker.

When I got home from our family vacation last month, I told the man lucky enough to be married to me that I had to make some changes. I also told him they likely wouldn't be cheap, but anything was worth a try to make me feel better. Off I went to the grocery store with no list but a promise to give it an honest effort. That meant organic as much as possible, little sugar except from fruits, no gluten, and no dairy. Let me break that down for you: all gluten free pastas, breads, crackers, cookies...no cheese...no milk...no ice cream...no sour cream...

Plants. And meats. Plants and meats. Meats and plants.

I've found several amazing substitutes since that first trip. Almond milk ice cream is amazing. I am in love with almond/coconut milk. One of my favorite dinners is salmon with a tablespoon of pure maple syrup, sauteed napa cabbage and mushrooms, and organic rice. A new family rule established by my oldest is we try one new food each week. Some are huge fails, but others have been tolerable and a few might be repeats! (Psst! Anybody know how to cook yellow beets?!)

Here's the big, important part: Within three days of changing my eating habits, I was headache free with only a few episodes of the burning sensation I was having. Don't get me wrong, there have been a few moments where I've ached a bit, but I've not had an "oh, hell, I've gotta take to the bed" headache. Prior to vacation, where I started eating better because, hello, fresh seafood, I was spending about two hours each day in bed with headaches in addition to sleeping 8-10 hours each night. With all that beauty sleep, I should've been Mrs. America.

I'm not healed. Forty years of eating (mostly) crappy, inflammatory foods can't be undone overnight. I still have a long way to go, and I know there are bound to be days where I'm not 100%. I still need to see my doctors and have bloodwork done. What I do know at this point is that this is having a positive impact on my life. I rarely have any acid reflux anymore, and I'm tasting natural flavors again. Although there is chocolate ice cream in the fridge, I opted for fresh Mt. Rainier cherries. That's Mt. Everest big, people.

As each day goes by, it gets easier. It takes more time...Dear Lord, does it ever. This is not even in the ballpark of convenient. I never would have survived 120 years ago if my family had to depend on me to prepare the meals each day! There are nights I cook for just myself because the rest of the family just wants some tacos or something, and that's okay. I'm finding little nuggets of yumminess, like The Piping Gourmet's gluten-free, dairy-free Whoopie Pies. (Seriously, I fight my kids for these.) Rudi's multi-grain bread is gluten free and quite divine with an egg over easy. There are plenty of ways I can make this work, and I will because I never want to go back to where I was. That place was, quite frankly, a little bit too close to what I would envision Hell to be like. I'm no saint, but I envision my real estate in the hereafter to be a little more climate controlled...then again, I might be too optimistic.

Feel free to share any food hacks, comments, or recipes!

The Health Chronicles, Volume 1...My ANA is Rocky Mountain High

2015-06-07T15:59:00.002-04:00

*Sigh* Where to start... I've thought about this post for a long time, and I'm still not real sure where it'll end up, but I guess this is where it starts. I've typed about 10 lines and erased (deleted, I suppose, in this age of technology) them all.

My goal with these posts (it won't fit into one) is to share a little about what I'm experiencing in hopes that either (a) someone else knows what the hell I'm talking about, and/or (b) someone else might be relieved to know you're not going crazy (I can't promise that, but...).

Here we go.

For about, oh, all my life, I've not felt good. As a little kid we had to complete a 600 yard walk/run. I couldn't really run it at all, but I'd try to keep up with all those speedy little bastards in my class. It usually ended up with me sucking wind while finishing it up in a slow walk. All those other kids were back in the cold AC by the time I was done, and I know my gym teacher cursed my name every year. I was plenty active, but running kicked my ass.

I believe I was probably the only kid in Trigonometry that needed an extra chair to prop up my swollen, purple knees. While I wish I had some super athletic story to share (winning basket, sliding in homebase), my amazing maneuver was simply walking to class. I went on a date once with a boy to a dance place for teens, and I could only sit. *sigh*

Through my 20's and 30's, I went around and around to doctors. All I could describe was that I didn't feel well. My bloodwork always looked good, and I had nothing that could be "seen" by anyone. The best description I had was that I felt like I had a bell jar over my head. Imagine the look I got as I described this..."Well, have you read Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar? That's how I feel, like I'm an insect trapped inside and the rest of the world is out there." I feel disconnected from everything...

Essentially, I feel like my body is flipping me the bird every.single.day.

In my early 30's I learned I was allergic to milk. I love milk. In all forms. Ice cream. Whole milk. Cheese. Yogurt. Sauces. Coffee Creamer. Me and milk? We good. My allergy didn't take an epi-pen kind of approach, so I just kept on consuming it. I learned that soft cheeses and whole milk kinda messed with me, so I avoided those, but I still kept on. I'm beginning to wonder if I have kept my immune system in overdrive for so long fighting the allergy that it's just had enough?

I also have the amazing luck of having polycystic ovarian syndrome. This is endometriosis's sort-of cousin. Recently while having an transvaginal ultrasound (the tech and I are VERYCLOSE after this procedure.), I got to see what polycystic ovaries look like. The answer? Swiss cheese. Those bitches hurt, too. One burst a few months ago, and it was what I expect I would feel if I were being stabbed by a long, rusty blade in the lower abdomen.

PCOS screws with your hormones, and not in a good way. I guess there's really no good way to screw with one's hormones, but... I've always struggled with my weight, and the only time I've been able to lose weight has been right after being pregnant, when my hormones are as close to normal as they will ever be. I've been lucky in that infertility has not plagued me as it does a lot of women with PCOS. Still, it's a pain in my arse.

So here I am....According to my ANA test, which measures inflammation in the body, I have very high inflammation right now. I've changed my diet completely. No milk. Let me repeat that: No milk. None. I'm sure there are trace amounts sneaking in, but to my knowledge there is no lovely, delicious milk entering my very pissed-off body.

That is where I am at today. Of course there's more to how I know my ANA is high, and I'll let you in on that in the next post (did I mention this business makes me super lazy and fatigued?). On a high note, I managed to vacuum the living room today! Doesn't everybody get excited about that? No? Oh.

Grecian Eyes, Niagara Falls, and a Doctor's Office...

2015-01-24T10:40:00.000-05:00

There are some stories that I find hysterically funny, and (yet) when I tell them to others all I hear is crickets. My sense of humor is just sometimes at odds with others and other times it's just really poor taste. I know this because sometimes my closest friends on the planet call me an asshole. No subtle read-between-the-lines there!

This one, however, is funny. Funnier because it happened to me.

In all honesty I had forgotten about this until one of coworkers was telling me about her doctor's appointment. It triggered my memory and I told her the story. There might have been an emergency run to the bathroom to avoid the laughing-too-hard-I-pee syndrome. Maybe.

Several years ago, before my amazing doctor passed away, I had a funky mole on my upper arm, so he sent me to a dermatologist to have it checked out. I was a touch nervous because my grandfather had to deal with skin cancer when I was younger. Because of this, I got the full treatment. Let me share...

As I walked into the office, I was greeted by a full room of people. I checked in and parked myself into one of the few chairs close to the entry. I'm weird about walking across a waiting room full of people I don't know. This gave me a premium view of the receptionists' office. Receptionists are like secretaries in that if you really want to know the vibe of an office, secretly watch them. They are the true gatekeepers of all important knowledge in any business.

photo: wallpaper2020.com

While I'm doing recon on the receptionist, a gentleman in a white coat walks behind them...Obviously a doctor or PA. He is lovely. No, I mean LOVELY! Olive skin, dark hair, eyes that look like the Grecian coast has been bottled inside them. As I'm reflecting on his godliness, it hits me that I am a new patient. A NEW PATIENT. This means I have no doctor or PA. Oh. My. God. He could be...no, no, no. I decide at this time that God does not hate me enough to make this happen. After all, I'm being responsible and taking care of my health. This responsibility demands absolutely no cute doctors doing my inspection. Right?

No. No, it does not.

As I'm now sitting in my little (very white, sterile, COLD) room, in walks the Grecian God of Eyes. Of course he does. I am in a thin paper gown sitting on an exam table/chair thingy covered in thin paper. Sigh.

After introductions, I realize this man is quite nice. Which should be comforting, but I'd prefer he be an asshole like me so that I could hate him a little instead of being in awe of those damn eyes of his. We start with conversation about why I'm here, blah, blah, blah. Then the games begin.

The arm part is easy enough. That's already sticking out of the gown. Then we move to legs, toes, hands. Again, easy. Then he says the words I never expected: "I need you to stand and take off your gown." Oh. My. God.

When he initially walked into the room, I began to perspire a bit. Not like I'd been running from zombies or anything, but enough that I could feel the warmth on my back. I had sort of forgotten about it because arms, hands, legs, and toes are easy. Removal of gown? Not easy.

photo: freepik.com

I'm sure I would have been a little, um, sweaty regardless of the person performing this glorious inspection, but I immediately developed more than a little glistening of perspiration at this point. I've never been to Niagara Falls, but I would wager I was within range of daily output in less than 60 seconds. You can't stop that kinda sweat. Not perspiration, full-on sweat.

And so I stood. I stood up to remove the paper gown to stand there in a freezing (yet not enough to stop the waterfall of sweat), sterile, florescent-lit room with Grecian God and two nurses, to bare myself in my obviously-not-chosen-with-care underwear in the sake of my health.

That moment.

When I planted my feet on the floor and began to rise, I realized the sweat was actually acting as a glue between myself and the paper on the table. And it came with me.

Firmly planted between the cheeks. Not the cheeks on my face.

*sigh*

I'm not sure if it was embarrassment or relief when I finally heard the paper RIP away from my body and fall back against the table. I'm sure the heat coming from my face would've powered several electrical grids for days. So there I stood...no gown, yet still decorated with lovely bits of paper.

Ain't nothing you can do with that mess.

So, as my friend/coworker that I dearly love and admire tells me her story of being embarrassed by being pretty-much-naked in front of others (she's tall, blonde, and appears a decade younger than her years, mind you.), I say to her, "At least your ass cheeks didn't kidnap the paper by force of sweat in front of the Grecian God of dermatology."

You're welcome.

Circles...Coming Around and Easing Back

2014-11-02T08:43:00.002-05:00

http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs71/i/2011/229/d/b/
life_in_circles_by_maritsvalas-d46xl68.jpg

It often strikes me how life comes full circle, weaves around the bend, and comes home again. When I start over-thinking things (cause that's what I do...even at the grocery store), I try to remind myself it'll all come out in the wash as my grandmother used to say. Sometimes, tho, that's one long damn cycle.

The 48 hours of this weekend have been a topsy-turvy ride...last night I celebrated as two of my favorite people promised to be each other's best friend, to shelter each other from the world, and to be there forever. It meant so much because their love story started over 20 years ago and is now starting again.

Tomorrow I will go to the church cemetery to lay my uncle to rest. Those words are heavy. Heavy with regret, joy, sorrow, finality...

He was my uncle by marriage, inherited when my aunt married him. He had two sons from a previous marriage, and they had none together...which made me as close to a daughter as anyone could be. I will tell no lies: I was spoiled rotten by the both of them, both in the things bought for me and the love I was given. Like all good stories, that came to an abrupt end.

When my aunt (of Wanda's Stripper Dip fame) passed away unexpectedly, we each responded in our own ways. Each of us, though, fought hard to stay away from each other. It was hard to hear that laughter that sounded like hers...hard to see faces that were mirror images. And, as humans do, we tried to tear each other apart because that was easier than facing the fact that she was gone. We inflicted pain with words and deeds to make sure everyone hurt. It kicked off a 20 year battle of wills that left no one the better.

As I drove to my in-laws house one day, I saw my uncle's garage door open. I said to God (we're tight like that...I think, anyway), "If that door's open when I drive back by, I'm stopping." God's funny because the door was open. Like, "So, what are you gonna do with that, big girl?" So....I stopped. That easy. I just stopped. We talked briefly, exchanged numbers, and had lunch not too long after. Just. Like. That.

We had several lunch dates in the following year or two. Initially there were stops and starts in the conversation, but eventually we developed our rhythm and our conversations were always wonderful. Don't get me wrong: He could be a stubborn, principled ass at times, but for that reason I loved him. It's easy to give in to the rest of the world, but it takes hard guts to stand your ground. He always paid for my lunch and hugged me goodbye. Every last goodbye was followed with "I love you." And he did. I loved him, too. I loved him because he was my uncle, because he was kind to me as a kid, because he was my last tie to the years of my youth when I didn't know people died and left you.

Yesterday at the grocery store, there was a family of four: mom, dad, son about 10 years old, and a toddler. They were walking down the aisle arguing about money. The dad was telling mom he needed pants for work because the only pair he owned without holes were the ones he had on. She was upset, telling him there was no money for that. The young boy was just walking with his hands stuffed in his pockets, defeated and sad. They weren't yelling, but it was loud enough for everyone close-by to hear in a quiet, Saturday morning grocery store where the 16 year-old kid forgot to push play on the shitty muzak.

I walked to the cash register and bought a gift card, and then I went to search for them in the store. They were in the frozen food section, still arguing. I walked up to them, and, while handing the card to the mom, said, "I remember not having money to pay bills, but I was lucky to have family to help me. My uncle recently passed away, so this is in his honor. Buy the pants you need, or just take your son for pizza and a movie. You're all each other has, so be kind. Just be kind to each other." The dad was shaking his head no, and the mom was teary, but I walked away before they could say no to me. No was not an option. It was important to me that they be kind to each other for the sake of not breaking apart as a family and missing years of time spent together.

Tomorrow I will cry because he is gone. I will forever hate that I didn't get that last lunch date. Despite those tears, I am so, so grateful that I stopped that day. I know that, against 20 years of hard silence, in the end I had an uncle who loved me. That is enough for today.

Sit down, pick up the phone, and ease back into those relationships you're missing...Before you can't.

Happy birthday, Wanda...

In The Blink of an Eye...Tooth Fairies and Teenagers

2014-08-31T11:07:00.000-04:00

This family is a little strange...we love to get our teeth cleaned. When I say it's time to go to the dentist, these weirdos run to the car. That doesn't mean they love brushing their teeth at home, but they're all in when it comes to someone else cleaning them.

At our appointment a couple of weeks ago, the hygienist mentioned that the Hurricane's two front teeth on the bottom were loose. She says to me, "They will be coming out soon." While Hurricane was just over the moon about losing some teeth, I am less so....like, a LOT less so.

THIS smile....*sigh*

The next night, as I lay in bed, I suddenly felt really small and sad. Many of my friends were posting pictures of their children heading off to college, and I realized that day was coming for us, too. We still have five years before Girlo Two heads off to brave her new frontiers, but the Hurricane still fit in the palm of my hand five years ago. Now she's losing teeth...how the heck did that happen?

The Hurricane

It sounds silly, I know, but I'm gonna miss her "baby teeth" smile. Not only because it fills her whole face and is full of innocence and optimism, but because it means she is moving one step closer to being a big kid. She is the last of my babies, and she is the last of all those firsts...first steps, first teeth, first day of Kindergarten.

I know there are a million things I have to look forward to, and I do. I can't wait to see the amazing adults they will all grow up to be. I just wish they weren't quite so close to being those amazing adults.

As I get older, I realize that life is a series of phases, each with its own amazing adventures and occasional goodbyes. It's hard to realize how quickly they are moving away from me and into their own lives. I'm happy for them, but still a little sad for me. I push them to live life big, but I'd love to keep them closer just a little bit longer.

Soon, the tooth fairy will come, and I promise not to slam her lithe wings in the window. I promise to not pack myself into Girlo Two's luggage when she leaves for college. I promise these things because I love them, but I do not promise to not cry after the Tooth Fairy flies away into the night and Girlo Two drives off into the sunset.

Easier said than done, Seuss...

I Got This...Turning 40

2014-08-24T21:22:00.000-04:00

Dang, where y'all been?!?!

It happened. Done and done. I thought hitting 40 would be somehow worse than it was, but it was really cool. I spent the weekend surrounded by all the people I love and was reminded again of how damn awesome this life has been so far. There have been a few bumps here and there, but I learned some good lessons and walked out of the fire.

In other sorta related news, basically what happened this weekend was I sorta kicked some anxiety arse...

Backstory: In middle school there was a new girl and when she walked into the room, I knew she was gonna be some sort of awesome. She had on pink Chuck Taylor high-tops and some funky asymetrical hair. She was my people. And she was a lot of awesome. We've remained friends for all these years, and I got to go to Atlanta to help her usher in the next decade at a wonderful surprise party given by her equally amazing husband.

Back to kicking arse: So, since the Great Panic Attack I have only driven about 30 minutes from my house by myself. I can drive any distance as long as someone is in the car with me. What am I afraid of? Everything. I'll have a heart attack and kill someone in the lane beside me. I'll have a flat tire and be abducted/killed/raped by someone on the side of the highway. Rational? Nope, but that's my groove.

Now, I live about 400 miles from Atlanta. You see my problem, yes? I knew others were going, but I didn't want my schedule to hold anyone up from doing what they wanted to do. I decided I might as well just do it. And I did. And it felt good.

I used to make that drive monthly to visit my aunt, Wanda, when she lived there. I would grab a Mountain Dew (did I really ever drink those?!), a pack of Camel Lights (sorry, parents), and a bunch of CDs and just hit the road. I'd forgotten how liberating it was to just drive with the sunroof open. I knew exactly how far I was from Atlanta based on the curve of the roads because I had driven them so many times over the years. Like a glove, baby...

Here's what I came home with...
1. My car likes to go 80 miles an hour...no matter how hard I try...Thank God for cruise control!
2. Some songs will take you back...Ludacris, Indigo Girls, Scott Miller, Beck, and Urban Dance Squad serenaded me all 400 miles.
3. Old friends are the best friends in many ways because they knew you way back when and still love you.
4. Turning 40 is about me...just me. It's just about the most liberating feeling I've had in quite some time.
5. I can do it...whatever it is. If I can make that drive, no matter how silly that seems to someone else, I can do just about anydamnthing.

Choose happiness, people. Visit people you love. Surround yourself with those who make you laugh and don't cause you grief. Live life. Go rock your universe this week.

Smiles.

You know...it's not that long until my NEXT birthday...In case you're thinking about a gift for me!

Forty...Years, Not Ounces

2014-01-08T07:00:00.000-05:00

First things first. Happy b'day in Heaven to my nana...and Elvis. Now, my post.

Forty.

I'm rolling that around in my mouth and it tastes like putrid yuckiness. Like beets or radishes, the only foods I loathe. Forty just sounds blech.

Last year when Better Half was all sour-pussed about turning 40, I was all, "Hey, c'mon, it's gonna be great!" The cup that was half-full has since been drained and all traces of that sunshine has evaporated. Why? Because it's my turn. Dammit.

I celebrated 30 like a rock star. No, really. It was a combo birthday/divorce party and I had a hot new guy there. He's still hot, but not so new since we're soon celebrating another anniversary. That decade, minus the whole paralyzing anxiety/panic attacks/therapy part, was pretty amazing. I got married, had a kid, got my dream job, and bought a house. My thirties were good...no, I mean good. How the hell is 40 gonna battle that? I think of forty like B-Rabbit at the beginning of 8 Mile when he can't hold his mud at battle time. He could be good, but he's gonna need a lot of help.

When I think of 40, I think of people who are settled...content...together. Settled I can do. Content is even a maybe. Ain't no way in hell am I together, though. I wake up at least 3 times a week thinking about what I want to be when I grow up. What? I'm grown? Oh, shit.

I keep thinking there are things I want to do in life. Granted, I'm not sure exactly what those things are, but I feel like I'm marching time, waiting for something. Before you go all, "Well, go make it happen!" I don't what it is. Hence the problem. Okay, that's not really the problem. The problem is I'm halfway to checking out (optimistically speaking if I make it to 80ish, which I might based on family history), so that means half my friggin' time is up. Halfway is good if you're running a marathon or waiting on homemade chocolate cake or pregnant. In relation to living versus being dead? Not so much.

I keep thinking about what I want to be by the time I hit that, ahem, great day. Time is limited. Truthfully, so is my dedication to anything that requires a lot of change on my part. I'm sort of a stubborn ass. I keep reading that being 40 allows you to be an asshole just because you're 40 now and you're so, you know, wise. I think I locked in on that at about 17.

Here are the two great things I've honed in on thus far.

I used to have really, really short pixie hair. Of course, like most women, I always wanted to total opposite of what I had, so my life has been a revolving door of grow-it-out, cut-that-off! I loved my short hair, but then I envied those easy ponytails and bouncing curls of my friends and let it grow. After a bit, it become a shield and safety blanket. Short hair has expectations, ya know. I couldn't live up to the sassiness required, so I sorta hid behind my long hair. I think I'm ready to give my pixie another go. Maybe. The jury is deliberating, but is leaning toward it. We'll see.

I've never worn a bikini. Ever. I remember being at the beach in high school with friends and one girl needing to borrow a suit. I offered her an extra of mine, but she politely (sincerely because she was/is an angel of a gal) said she only wore two-piece suits. I completely understood because I would, too, if I had her body. I'd probably just strut around n-a-k-e-d all damn day. I've never been a bikini girl. I had baby fat that just hung around until I had three babies of my own. *Sigh*

Maybe 40 will be the year I finally get into a bikini. Oh, not the shape I'm in now. There's no way in hell that's happening. I started working out a bit and watching my food. Let's be honest, it's not for my health since I'm halfway dead. It's for the somewhat remote possibility I might buy a bikini this year. It's gonna have to have some, um, support, but maybe there's nice mommy bikinis out there? It's new territory to me, so we'll see.

I have six months and a few days to get used to 40 or to at least be able to see sunlight between my thighs. Wish me luck.

photo: misadventureswithandi.com

Bigfoot In My Attic...Or A Husband (Either Way)

2014-01-07T12:50:00.001-05:00

Apparently the polar vortex that has descended upon, like, 50% of the US has rendered the pump on our heating unit useless because the water has frozen in it. Which means, TADA!, no heat from the upstairs unit. We are blessed, despite being hetherns on occasion, and the downstairs unit has been working double-time to keep us warm through the night...just to be sure, though, J slept with 5 pairs of socks on. No shit.

As I was headed to the attic to work on this little problem (might I insert here that it totally messes with my head that when I am in the attic I am technically about 4 stories above ground?), my husband informed me he would take care of it because I usually do all the "handyman" stuff around here. The reason for this is not because he is not capable or is a wuss. He wears Kevlar for a living, so he's good with the whole manhood business. In truth, I like that stuff. I grew up with my daddy tinkering 24-7, so it's my comfort zone.

So, since it's a balmy 1 degree outside right now, which means our attic is maybe 10 degrees, I thought, "Ya know what? Let him have this one." Which is how this picture came to be...

Want to know what a blow dryer won't do?
It won't thaw ice when it's 10 degrees.

Sitting in the frigid attic in his Bigfoot suit with the blow dryer (hair dryer?) desperately trying to thaw the line.

Twenty minutes later? Ice-1 Man-0

Be aware, Polar Vortex, your ass is outta here tomorrow!

Fast Food Banished Forever! (Or At Least Until February 1st...)

2014-01-05T10:29:00.001-05:00

photo: med-health.net

It's funny. Each year about the time the fall/winter holidays crank up, so does our consumption of all things fast food. It starts innocently enough with one of those damn pumpkin spice coffees anytime I see a Starbucks. Then McDonalds, who sucked with their pumpkin spice coffee, managed to create the most magnificent white chocolate mocha EVER. Cherry on the sundae? I have 3 McDonald's at my whim and fancy, so no more driving 30 minutes to the Starbucks. Score!

From there it is just down the hill into the cesspool of cheeseburgers and fried chicken nuggets. We go upscale some nights to Bojangles or Zaxby's, but usually it's a Wendy's or McD's drive-thru. This lasts for about six weeks until we are all gut-sick with preservatives. But, wait! New Year's is just around the corner, sassy and dripping with resolutions, so we'll be alright.

Last year we got a little carried away at Christmas and realized we needed to get a grip on the family budget. When we looked over the checkbook register, we realized all our frivolous spending was fast food stops...biscuits on the way to school...coffee in the afternoons...cheesy pizza goodness after soccer. We decided to go one month without any fast food. Any. Nothing. Nada. Damn.

We made it with relatively little pain. I had kinda forgotten how to cook, or maybe I just blocked it out. I have a household of 4 picky eaters and then me. I eat everything. You want comfort food? Buttery mashed taters? Shiny, greasy meatloaf? Fluffy, steamy biscuits. Syrupy, ice cold sweet tea? I got you. Wait? You wanna be healthy? Okay. I can do roasted brussel sprouts drizzled with balsamic along with lemon-caper chicken and never will a touch of butter or oil touch the pan. I'll whip you up a salad sans creamy dressing and croutons, and we'll have lukewarm water with lemon juice. Like I said, I got you. The rest of the family? Not so much.

I have 66.6% (repeating 6 'cause it drives the math teacher in me a little batty) of my children allergic to shellfish and nuts. My husband thinks he's allergic to all vegetables, except green beans. My son will only eat when and if he's hungry or has conquered the latest level in whatever stupid game he's playing. (No offense, J.) One has texture issues and one just has issues. The Hurricane is a drive-by eater. She cruises by the table, takes a bite, then does a lap through the house. We don't worry because we know she'll come back. Usually.

So, it's January 2014, and here we are again. No fast food month for us. We did cheat a little and used gift cards we'd been given for a gift on the 2nd after a day of 4 dentist's appointments. We deserved that one. Other than that, we've been off the pipe. I've cooked and we've not starved. The cupboards are full of stuff I've forgotten I liked. Last night we had pan-seared filets with blue cheese and garlic shrimp and salads. I'm fixing soup beans today. I know I'm the only one that'll eat them, but it's okay. Eat a biscuit if you don't like it. Or not. Either way, we aren't going to the drive-thru!

We'll fall back into the pattern come end of the school year when time somehow becomes smaller and shorter and schedules become fatter and fuller. Maybe not, though. Maybe I'll morph into super mom or win the lottery and quit my job to become super mom. For now, I'll settle for 26 more days of no fast food. How are you changing it up for 2014?

New Year/New Idea...Opinions?

2014-01-02T21:25:00.000-05:00

Honest. Would you read more based on this? I mean, before I quit my job to become the next famous novelist and start jet-setting when I sell the film rights and only drink real champagne, it'd be nice to know if anyone would bother. Not digging for compliments, although they are always nice, but would like real feedback.

The Highway 201 Flea Market is probably not the best place to determine one’s destiny in the matters of love, but when the former meth-head-turned-fortune teller at Booth 12A, sandwiched between two guys selling hot car parts and an old man offering up baby chickens, said the date March 21^st would be important, I had no choice but to pin all my hopes and dreams on that date. Who wouldn’t, right?

Happy New Year, Peeps!

The Memory of a Lifetime...and he got a toaster.

2013-12-29T14:55:00.000-05:00

When we bought our house, the front door was a perfectly respectable color: a nice, stately black. A little faded, yes, but otherwise nice. Just nice. It didn't scream at you if you drove by. It matched the shingles. Perfectly fine, but so not me. Shortly after moving in, I painted it red. Red seemed like the perfect color on that particular day, and I lived with it for a bit until it wasn't the perfect color anymore.

It must be stated at this point that my mother is the queen of all things color. It's like some weird sense only few people have, like the ability to see auras. At least I think that is also an amazing skill. I truly believe her color thingy trumps Martha Stewart's or any other gazillionaire decorator.

Perfection.

So, Mother and I decided it was time to move away from the red and onto new frontiers. She brought over her chips (I must tell you at this point she has at least 15 boxes ~ those clear shoebox size ~ full of paint chips, all organized in ways only art people would understand, which is to say I don't.) and we found this color of green and declared it the "perfect" shade of green. And it is. Perfect for all seasons and any color of flowers should I ever get off my lazy arse and actually plant flowers.

Upon arriving home to find the front door area covered in plastic and painter's tape, my husband asked exactly why I needed to change the color. We promptly explained the concept of the "perfect" shade of green. It doesn't scream at you; rather, it invites you to sit on the (matching but horribly painted by a pissed-off 12 year-old) front bench, but watch for the stray nails poking out here and there. It says, "This door opens to a happy house." (Most of the time, but never at the nasty homework hour.) It reminds me to frolic about and not be so serious. Mother can read colors, but they speak to me. They do not, under any circumstances, speak to my husband. The door has become the butt of all jokes: "Is that the perfect pair of shoes, like the perfect front door?" and so on....

So what has my amazing front door got to do with anything?

Well, let me tell you...

I should have known there was a plot brewing because my better half was very sure to remind me several times how he was waiting until at least December 21 to shop, and it might possibly be December 23. Let me clarify right here. He is a liar. As I was explaining to him we should not spend much on each other and I had only gotten him two small things, and quite unglorious gifts at that, he already had my gift. Did I mention he was a liar? He let me carry on with my heartfelt conversation about saving money and such, all the while knowing his gift was snugly wrapped up and tucked away. Liar. But I heart him for his lie because his gift was a once-in-a-lifetime, glorious, exquisite and joyful thing from the bottom of his amazing heart.

I was given a box, a quite nice Dior white leather box, from my mother. I knew something was going to happen and that something would make me cry, so I went ahead and started before I opened anything. I like to be proactive that way. While I had started my crying jag, I opened the box to find a sweet pale pink hankie with a note:

Are you crying yet?

I never have a hankie or a tissue or anything remotely appropriate when I cry. I pinch the snot and wipe my eyes with my hands because in my head I'm not a tender-hearted mush. I'm a tough broad, and yet I cry at every inappropriate moment...

At this point, Niagra Falls is a tiny creek barely an inch deep compared to the waterworks I am providing. My husband tenderly passes me a box and I manage to open it. Inside I find a CD case...in the perfect shade of green. When I open it, I find a CD with a picture of our most recent family photo. I look up at him and asked him if he had bought the digital rights to that photo session. He said we should watch it and show the family, so I took my spot front-and-center on the couch while he hooked up everything to the TV. With children on each side cuddled up, we watched...

My husband, in cahoots with my parents and our wonderful friend/photographer Jessica Sharpe, had compiled a biography of my life, complete with songs special to us and notes from him. It starts with my baby pictures and Miranda Lambert's "The House That Built Me" and ends with our family photos from this fall with Shania Twain's "You're Still The One". In between those two songs was the song we danced to at our wedding, "Bless the Broken Road" by Rascall Flatts, which sums up our road perfectly.

It contains pictures of my precious Aunt (of Stripper Dip fame) and my beloved grandparents, three of whom have passed on. It was full of funny photos of my high school days, including all my bestest friends. There were plenty of our children from the days we brought them home from the hospital to their current ages. It is 39 years of memories placed lovingly together just for me. That's love, ya'll.

To give you an idea of what they have pulled off, my mother dug through boxes of photos I didn't even know existed. She pulled together somewhere in the neighborhood of 160 photos!!! The whole time I've been accusing my better half of wasting his days off, he was patiently scanning pictures and working with Jessica. Remember that perfect shade of green from the start of this blog? He took a picture of it, emailed it to Jessica, who then color-matched it for the CD case. It's that detailed. For real. They pulled off the gift of a lifetime.

I am blessed. I am loved. I am thankful. And he got a toaster.

Oh, Arne...I Think You Shoulda Stuck To Ballin'

2013-11-27T09:13:00.000-05:00

Let me be the first to go on record as saying this teaching gig wasn't where I thought I'd find myself at almost 40. A lawyer or architect, perhaps, but not this thankless (except by my hormonal, twitchy fan club of 12 year-olds) and underpaid profession. And, yet, here I am...

So it goes with Arne Duncan. He's the Secretary of Ed dude for the WHOLE country. All of us. As in, from sea to shining sea...or inner-city project to the foothills of Appalachia. He is numero uno in the food chain. (um, in case you haven't guessed, I am not numero uno. I am, like, numero 145 quadzillion. I am a minion.)

I'm betting Arne wishes he could take this back, but maybe not. Maybe he is so amazed by the man he sees in the mirror he is totally okay with what he said. What he said was, "All of a sudden, their child isn't as brilliant as they thought they were, and their school isn't quite as good as they thought they were." I believe he said he was 'fascinated' by their response. He was talking about white suburban moms. I think I'm one of those, but I could be poor, rural Appalachian trash. Either way, I'm going to pretend it was me because it might as well be.

Short little history on the man running our nation's educational system...He was raised in Hyde Park in Chicago. You might recognize that because it also happens to be where the President is from, too. Hyde Park is racially diverse and is pretty much all liberal.

Growing up he attended the University of Chicago Laboratory Schools. It's pretty fancy. Check it out here. He was graduated from Harvard with a degree in sociology. I am pretty damn sure that is why he was fascinated by those white suburban moms. Sociology is the study of human behavior, after all.

So, what does a man with a Harvard degree in Sociology do after graduation? Well, if you're Arne, you head to Australia to play basketball. While ballin', he also worked with troubled children as a social worker. Not a teacher...a social worker. (Props to my social worker friends, but I don't do what you do and you don't do what I do.)

After returning to the States, he began working with the Ariel Education Initiative. Conveniently, a childhood friend was the person who appointed him to this position. The initiative is the offshoot of an investment firm. His job was to mentor struggling youth. It wasn't too successful, though, and the school closed. Never fear, though, because he reopened it as a charter school. Charter schools receive public money, but have more freedom in what/how they teach.

After a short time, he was chosen as CEO as the Chicago Public Schools. From what I've read, his ran the system like a business. Which is fine...if you're making grills or radiator caps. He closed neighborhood schools, displaced staff, and opened up charter schools. He was, truly, the CEO...not a director or a superintendent, but a market-brained CEO. Again, if you're the CEO of a company, go rock that life. Show me the money, Arne. Kids don't work that way, though.

Why am I telling all this? I don't hate Arne, but I have serious problems with the people steering the education of my kids. I am beyond lucky because my school system is amazing and our director 'gets' it. Others aren't so lucky.

Food for thought...Einstein's brain weighed less, was wider, and had different grooving than the average human brain. Why do we expect that not to be true of kids today? All kids are not alike...You don't stamp them out at the factory.

Bottom line is you, Arne, have not taught in a classroom. You married a PE teacher from Australia. Your mom ran an after-school program, and your dad was a professor. I'm not real sure how that qualifies you to be the Secretary of Education, but I suppose someone thought it was a good idea....So was the Edsel.

I can get on-board with the criticism of grade inflation. There are plenty of teachers feeling pressured to "support" grades with fluff material just so Johnny's dad won't come barreling into the school asking for a job/head on a platter. Go back and look at your own middle school grade card...according to mine, I wasn't the brightest bulb on the strand. Next time your kid doesn't bring home straight A's, think on that. Your kids' grades aren't your claim to fame despite what your stupid bumper sticker says. Quit living vicariously.

And I will proudly say I had no clue what to do when it came to college. Kids need to be better prepared, but college should not be a given. It should be, by God, an institution of thinking. It should be hard. Hello? It's college! It's where you go to learn about the stuff you want to learn about, not what someone like Arne thinks you should learn.

I'm going out on a limb here, but I think this has become a huge pissing contest between us and the world. "Oh, yeah, you have this many college graduates? Well, we're gonna have more!" For the love of God, quit using developing brains to make yourself feel better.

So, that said...I hope you figure it out, Arne. For the sake of the nation's children...for the sake of those kids I birthed over the past 13 years....and for your own sake. Screwing up a whole generation of kids would be quite the burden to bear.

P.S. On a sidenote, I don't think CC is the devil. Matter of fact, I can see benefits. It's not creating a legion of little baby socialists. However, the same way I can't fit into my best friend's size 4 jeans, one education can't fit all kids. Diversity is more than the color of skin.

The Wife I Am

2013-11-25T22:02:00.005-05:00

Most of ya'll probably know I am married man who just happens to be a police officer. The fact that he married me is almost as shocking as him being a police officer. I would've never seen that when we were in high school! A while ago I asked him if it would be okay if I wrote about his profession, and he said it was. This is less about him, though, and more about what it's like for the rest of us.

When we were all younger and less wise, police officers were those people to be avoided. They gave you tickets for speeding and took you "downtown" when you got caught rolling people's homes in the middle of the night. (Not that I did that, but my favorite "associates" might have...) They were intimidating and you avoided them like the plague. Some people still think of them this way: Scary, mean, not to be trusted.

I wonder what it is like to be married to someone who works 9-5 Monday through Friday...what it's like to have every weekend free...how it would be to eat dinner as a family each night. I wonder if life would be different if we had to share a bathroom each morning before beginning our days...or got into bed together to wind down and talk about how the day had gone.

There are many nights he is late getting in, or at least later than I expect. He usually won't leave until all his shift is in and accounted for, so there's never a "usual" time. It might be he needs to talk to the shift coming on, or maybe there's paperwork. Whatever it may be, there is usually little time to call me. Not because he doesn't care, but because his responsibility lies elsewhere at that moment.

Whenever this happens, which can be often, I find myself going through my usual thought process: If he's in trouble, which grandparents do I call if I have to go to the hospital? What if they're not home? How fast can I get there? Can the kids stay in the waiting room? What if I have to decide if they should go in? What if he doesn't come home? Can I raise these kids alone? Surely God wouldn't ever do this, right? This is my depressing, yet necessary, train of thought.

He misses soccer games and school programs. He has to go out at odd hours sometimes and I'm not sure when he'll be home. I do a lot of our parenting alone when he is at work. It's difficult at best to swing between being a one-parent home and a two-parent home. Add in three kids, and I am waaayyy out-numbered.

You get used to doing it by yourself and all of a sudden there's another parent in the mix. Shifting between the two is challenging. It's harder still to get back into the groove of being a couple when you literally haven't seen each other in five days other than a quick good-bye in the hallway.

Being married to him means I'm not as innocent and trusting as I used to be. I've always been a chicken, but now I'm a paranoid chicken. Everyone is a potential carjacker/murderer/rapist. When the house creaks, it's obviously Jack the Ripper coming through the door. It couldn't be, oh, the house just creaking or anything, ya know, logical.

In short, the person I am has been directly shaped by the person he is and the job he lives. It colors our family's lives and our friendships. It has woven itself into everything about us. It's a different life, but it's mine.

Well-behaved Women and all that...Rewriting History

2013-11-10T17:22:00.000-05:00

There's the old internet favorite quote about well-behaved women seldom making history. Apparently you gotta break the rules to rewrite the history books. I would bet that women who are not well-behaved as adults were probably not all that well-behaved as children....that's my assumption, of course. Maybe they were perfect angels and life somehow altered them in a way that changed their perfect demeanor. Who knows? Maybe they were just born to raise hell...

My youngest was christened with the nickname Hurricane because this is generally how she tears through life. The last 20 words I've uttered, after making sure my mother was going to trim my Crepe Myrtles so that I didn't butcher them, have been (in no particular order) "Stop!" "1-2-don't make me say 3!" "Get away from the spider-infested playhouse!" "Go wrestle with your dad!!!" If you followed me around with a recorder, this is my daily mantra. Some people have om; I have "So help me God!"

I know people judge me when they see her sometimes-well-maybe-alot of questionable behavior. Truly, I feel bad because they think she is a heathen and undisciplined. Some of it is pity for myself, but more so for her. She is a hard child to parent because to try to reign her in would only cause her to fight more.

I admit I have added to it. When people have asked how she is, I respond, "If she'd been first, she'd been last." However, that is possibly the truth. This girl is a work-out 24-7. There is no downtime for her, which means no downtime for us. As much as I delight in her, there are days when I wish for a kid who would go play quietly with some dolls or trucks or crayons or something...just something.

But.

She is so golden and pure and good. There is a light within her that is unlike anything I have ever encountered. She is fearless and full of wisdom. She is a teller of the truth, even when it wounds those who need to hear it.

Recently she was holding up the bathroom line at preschool. Her teacher was concerned she was taking a bit too long to take care of business, so she gently opened the door to check on her. There she was, drawers at her ankles on the pot with her chubby four-year-old hands clasped in prayer. The teacher, who knows and loves her, gently asked who she was praying for, she responded her grandpa needed some extra prayers that day. The teacher let her finish her business (both toiletry and prayers) and she moved on with her life for the day.

She can tell you where President Andrew Johnson is buried and much about his life. She knows that the leaves are turning colors and falling because the chlorophyll is leaving them. And, yes, she uses the word chlorophyll. She understands how echos work. She is amazing.

I know that raising her will be a challenge. She is going to test every boundary we and society set for her. She will test her teachers and try their patience. But she is going to be a freaking mind-blowing adult. I believe she will embrace every hurdle life hands her. She will stomp through life willing everyone to live as fiercely as she does. And I think they will.

"And though she be but little, she is fierce." Right on, Shakespeare...right on.

A Ninja...My Marketing Plan

2013-10-15T15:14:00.000-04:00

I'm still working on separating my work-self from my mom-self from my adult-self and so on. Most days I struggle with what is appropriate where and when and if I've embarrassed my children or my parents or my husband. I constantly question if I've committed career suicide with my lack of filter. Sheesh, it's exhausting and that's before I've actually done anything most of the time (hey, thanks, anxiety!)

We had a tech conference today that was amazing in a million ways, but one part has me struggling: Marketing ourselves in tomorrow's world. (Hey, it ain't about today: We're past that and the sun hasn't set!) One presenter, who was great in what he is doing, talked about teaching our kids how to market themselves for the world in which they will live and compete for jobs. Wow...how could I market my 10-year old? If he changes by the time he applies for his first job, will they sue me for false advertising?

I am guilty as all get-out when it comes to getting excited about new tech stuff and all the amazing and wonderbar things we can do in classrooms. Sometimes, though, does the excitement and hurrah about the "next" great thing override the moment in which we live? I'm excited about the cool things my kids will be able to do one day while I sit on the couch with glazed eyes and nod my head with no clue as to what they are doing. They will experience the same feeling I had when I tried to show my mom how to use iTunes for the 143,687th time. (Practice makes perfect!) It's part of the changing of the guard, I guess. I just don't know that I want her tweeting my picture with some snarky comment to pay me back for that mullet in Pre-K.

For now, my marketing plan is to be a ninja. I figure since they are trained in the ways of espionage (now I'm singing Charlie Daniels the rest of the day...go youtube it, you know you want to), that would work. I can change my mind each day depending on my particular assignment. I can wear all black so these last 10 pounds won't matter so much. I can carry a large sword to poke anyone brave enough to challenge my designated marketing plan. I seem to think, also, they wear shoes that resemble Toms. That should work for me.

There ya go...BreatheChick Ninja.

About A Boy

2013-08-07T20:42:00.001-04:00

So. I am usually all indignant about this being my personal space and such...no career or education talk up in this joint. But.

There was a keynote speaker today and he spoke of education being a calling and telling our stories. This will be a shocker, I know, but I'm quite cynical. Okay, not exactly. I force myself to believe in the good of others, but there are days I think a little Clorox in the gene pool would go a long, long way. I digress. As an educator, I grow weary of those emotional stories of callings and epiphanies and saving lives. That's the doubter in me. Then I remember I have my own story. You see, sometimes the teacher is the student, not the other way around.

I had never officially done individual conferencing with students. Sure, I knew my students, but I hadn't formally sat down with them to set goals and talk about their academics. Last year was the first time I had done so. Of course, I set out to have the mother of all conferences. Appropriate time? Check. Color charts of all prior standardized testing performance? Check. Benchmarks testing data? Check. Goals chart? Check. I got this. No, I GOT THIS! Then.

My first conference ever was with a young man we shall call Billy. Obviously not his real name because I would like to continue to have a job. So, Billy comes up and I have all my fancy crap out on my desk. I break out my gold felt-tipped pen (because that was the color I had designated for projecting gains, obviously. Duh.) and start to talk about all the data gibberish. I described his somewhat erratic testing performance and then I turned and asked him if he could think of anything that might be causing him to be so inconsistent.

The most soulful brown eyes looked back at me, filled with tears, and he sat silently. I asked again. After a moment, as the eyes couldn't hold any more, he points to third grade. "That was the year my parents were fighting so bad. I couldn't think." Then, as he looks at fifth grade, "My mom found out my dad has a girlfriend, but she didn't want my brother and sister to know. I don't want them to know either." Oh. Guess that's why.

After more conversation, I learned this young man was truly the man of the house. He worked at the family business and helped out with his siblings until after 9 pm at night. Then he would tackle his homework. His work ethic at 12 years old waxed the floor with that of many adults I know.

Did I cry? Why are you even asking that question? Of course. I cried and I hugged him. I told him it was okay...we would be alright. I told him his success had nothing to do with my charts (although they were beautiful) and data and anything else. I told him numbers on paper don't define him. I told him I didn't care what any of that paper said. I told him he would rule the world one day if he wanted to. I told him it was okay to be a kid. I told him to come to me if he ever needed anything. I told him I knew he was smart. I told him it was okay, and I meant it.

We had a great year. I don't know how he did on his testing, and I really don't care. (Shhh...) I know that I got to see his smiling face everyday and he was happy. He made some great friends, and he was loved every single second he was in our building. He will be amazing and wonderful and successful and all those things we want kids to be...because he already is.

I teach because someone once believed in me. My high school English teacher, Patsy Barger, wrote a compliment on my theme paper. She made me think that maybe, just maybe, I could be somebody. I teach because I want to break cycles and stop bad shit from happening. I teach because to do anything else would just suck.

So there is my story. It was nine years into my career, but it was a game-changer. I see my students differently now. I always saw more than numbers and data, but now I scratch that surface and pick at those scabs to find out who is really underneath there. It can be uncomfortable and itchy and hard. Most things worth doing are.

I leave you with this from The Breakfast Club. People are always more than you think...even kids.

Saturday, March 24,1984. Shermer High School, Shermer, Illinois, 60062. Dear Mr. Vernon, We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did *was* wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. What do you care? You see us as you want to see us - in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. You see us as a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal. Correct? That's the way we saw each other at 7:00 this morning. We were brainwashed.

So, that is my story. No angels got their wings and no puppies or kittens were saved. Not a big deal, really, but it was a big deal to me. In the end, that's all that matters...that it mattered to me.

P.S. Kevin Honeycutt was the keynote today. www.kevinhoneycutt.com

Taking A Break

2013-03-28T09:47:00.000-04:00

As I've said before, I live (LIVE!) for social interactions. I thrive on being around other people. It makes me joyful to come home after spending time with family and friends. Waitressing was my one of my favorite jobs ever because I got to talk to people all.day.long.

One of the best inventions in my life has been the book of Face. I've found old friends, made new ones, and actually come across some of my family overseas I never knew existed. We've had a glorious run, but I believe our time has come to an end. Why? So glad you asked.

I'm glad you love your brother/sister/mother/father/cousin/dog/cat/and sister/brother-I-never-had. Sincerely. I don't need some picture of a sparkly candle with "I love my 'insert relation here'" to show me that. Furthermore, it's always some kind of day. National Colon Day. National Love Your Weiner Dog Day. National Whatev Day. THERE IS ALWAYS SOME KIND OF DAY. And I feel like a shit if I don't repost some support for someone who lost their snuggie on National I Heart Snuggie Day.

I generally know my friends' political views. I don't need a running commentary on why you love/loathe any other point of view. I know you think you're right. I know you have documentation either of biblical or constitutional sorts to back up what you think in either direction. I know what I believe, but I'm willing to listen to others. Want to know why? BECAUSE I MIGHT LEARN SOMETHING!!! There are two devices attached to our skulls and they are intended to communicate information to that pea-brain we have. Putting others down, insulting others' intelligence, and just in general being a dick is not nice.

We have become such a cynical, doubting people. Case in point: Manager of an Olive Garden makes a kind gesture toward a family who had suffered a house fire. He comped their meal. This should be seen as a kind gesture; however, critics laid out a conspiracy theory detailing why this was a marketing ploy by OG. Really, people? We've become so jaded and distrusting we can't even believe in kindness anymore? Sweet Jesus.

Life is hard, and shit like this weighs heavy on me. It disappoints me. It pisses me off. It makes me want to crawl into a cave and stay there where mean, cynical, unhappy people won't shit on my joy. I can't do that, though, so I'll do the next best thing: I'm filing separation papers from the facebook. I'm not ready to divorce just yet, but for now we need some space.