Twinkle, Twinkle

Do you find that blogging helps you work through your emotions? asked my sister the other day, as I was venting to her in a long-overdue phone conversation.

Yes, yes I do. In fact, it was a crucial part of working through my depression and anguish and slow healing when my first marriage imploded, not to mention dealing (at long last) with a number of other issues that bubbled to the surface when I finally got help. Read my archives from 2009 and see what I mean.

Writing is a release for me, but I have discovered that I need an audience in order to write effectively. Private journals are worthless. Emails to a handful of people feel...insufficient. Blogging is a perfect solution, right?

Except that the anger and stress and anxiety with which I am dealing right now aren't mine to share with the world. Well, I mean, they're my emotions and whatnot, but they're about people and situations that leave me voiceless here. To write about what's going on would violate people's privacy and, quite possibly, make the situation worse.

So I'm usually silent. On here, at any rate. And Facebook.

(Because I'm not going to be one of Those People, that's why.)

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Christmas is a shining light in the midst of this swirling darkness, let me tell you. Or, more aptly, an array of twinkling lights. We have pledged not to go so overboard financially this year (I got a little carried away last year), but there are ways (other than the obvious wallet-related one) in which that's better anyway. I am thinking more carefully about what to get for each person, and I'm making a few as well. I'm also working with the kids to choose gifts for MTL and each other, because I believe strongly that children should give and not just receive.

I love making gifts for Christmas. It takes me back to my own childhood, when my sister and I rarely had any money of our own to spend on gifts for our parents or each other. We would make a sign for our bedroom door declaring it official Santa's Workshop territory and denying entrance to everyone else. Then we'd take odds and ends of this and that, raiding our mother's extensive craft cupboard for much of what we needed, and we'd make all sorts of amazing gifts. Looking back, I'm rather astonished by our creativity. Two different years we created panoramas for our mother. The one I remember most was this extraordinarily detailed rendition of a market stall, with "bolts" of fabric on the walls, little drawers made from matchboxes containing bric a brac, and people made from twigs and clothes pegs and beads. There was a woman with braided hair trying on a shoe (a singleton from a Barbie pair), a male merchant displaying cloth, and a woman unmistakably meant to be our mother examining the fabric.

This, my friends, is what happens when kids have lots of free time and no real access to electronics of any kind. IMAGINATION. CREATIVITY. FUN. <insert cantankerous grumbling about "kids these days">

I'm fairly certain the month leading up to Christmas was the one time of year my sister and I actually worked or played together in Peace and Harmony.

So this year I'm making a few gifts, and I'm helping my little KlutzGirl, who is never so happy as when making or drawing something, to make a few as well. In those moments, looking at the work of my hands and knowing that I'm demonstrating my love for the recipients in a very tangible way--that's when those lights twinkle brightly enough to drive the shadows aside for a breath of time.

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Part of the challenge of blending families is blending holiday traditions. MTL and I have been fairly fortunate. We aren't in direct opposition with any of it, especially since his traditions are more general and mine more specific. Last year I introduced a number of Christmas traditions to my new family, including putting an angel on the top of the tree, making Christmas Eggs for breakfast, and forbidding the children to leave their bedrooms on Christmas morning until they hear Christmas music start playing. When they emerged at last, impatient and excited, they found the Christmas tree piled 'round with presents, candles lit, and hot chocolate waiting for them.

They seemed to enjoy it, but one never knows how kids will react to New Ideas. On Sunday as we were waiting in the car for MTL to join us, The Padawan asked if we were going to do Christmas morning the same way this year.

What do you mean? I asked.

Like the music, he replied. I liked waiting until I heard the music and then coming down. Oh, and are you going to make those egg things again?

You mean the Christmas Eggs? I asked.

Yeah! Those were awesome.

Yeah! I liked all that too! chimed in KlutzGirl. And the hot chocolate and the candles and stuff. Are we doing that again?

As if I'd miss the chance to see those smiles on their faces!

***********************

This morning I proctored the first half of the PLAN test, since it's being administered to all the sophomores today and my first class of the day was a sophomore class. As I wandered up and down the aisles in the gym, I felt a sudden surge of warmth wash over me. These kids, these teens...they're annoying and frustrating and obnoxious as hell on a daily basis, but I love working with them. It's hard to remember sometimes these days, surrounded as we are by such negativity and derision directed toward my profession. I'm even looking into a new career path, because realistically I may not be allowed to remain in my career for sheer financial and political reasons. It's an ugly time to be a public school teacher, people.

But this morning, as I looked at row after row of faces, many of which I know, I felt the warmth and worth of what I do (yes, even when proctoring a damn standardized test), of working with these children caught on the cusp of adulthood. They are worth the sweat and tears and stress and time we pour into them every day, every week, every year.

I don't know how much longer I'll be a teacher, and I won't feel those warm fuzzies every day, but no one can make me regret the years I spend here.

***********************

It's a rough road I travel, at times. As my dear friend Amy said a couple of weeks ago, we are not women destined for smooth and easy lives. It would be lovely to win the lottery and not have to worry about money or debt any more. It would be lovely for the politicians to all have epiphanies and start working for the regular people instead of the corporations. It would be lovely for certain individuals to either undergo miraculous personality transformations or just....disappear.

I don't think any of those are likely to happen, alas. Life is not that neat and tidy.

But there are compensations. There are rewards for the pain. Sometimes the twinkling lights and silver linings are dimmed by the shadows and mist, but they exist.

They shine in the moments when my students understand a new concept, get excited by a piece of literature, and find safe harbor in my classroom.

They shine in the smiles on my children and stepchildren's faces, can be heard in their laughter as they rough and tumble with each other each afternoon after school, siblings in action and deed rather than just name.

They shine in the touch and looks and words of my beloved husband, who laid his head against me last night and told me he had never dreamed he would ever find his Home.

Twinkle on, Life. Twinkle on.

...laugh, leaning back in my arms

for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

--e. e. cummings

Sunset

I wrote this one after driving west into a sunset too beautiful for words. But I tried anyway. This is the last of the nature posts from that assignment. Maybe next time I'll try to get out in nature itself a little more. You know, like in spring.

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The sky is orange tonight--such an insufficient word for that blazing color, "orange." So pedestrian and ugly, reminiscent of Halloween and pumpkins. This is no autumnal orange of squash and spice and spectral eyes. This is a blaze of color that sweeps across the west, vivid and breathtaking against the deep leaden grey of what is not touched by sun. It shades to a pink that once again surpasses the childishness of the word, and finally edges into a reddened purple that blazes one final moment. And then grey. All is grey and shades of grey, swirled across a sky that speaks of coming snow.

Gone in a moment, dipped too far below the edge of the world for light to reach the visible sky.

We speak of the sun dying on the horizon, traces of long-ago belief that the sun died each night, only to be reborn each dawn. Eaten by wolves, birthed by goddesses. Death in glory, birth in triumph.

Such beauty, this dying. The sun's death is painted by a Master hand, shapes and pigments no human agency could imitate. This is not the glory of violence, going down in a blaze of glory in some cliche rock n roll sense, but the blaze of a life well lived, beauty spread and love given and warmth shared, until the reflection of this life is as glorious as the one who lived.

I hear of such deaths. I think perhaps my aunt's was such a one, as hard and painful and horrific as it was from one point of view. But the reflection of her life--and even of her death, the going of it and her hope and faith amidst pain and knowledge that nothing more could be done, the leaving of her husband and young children--the reflection shone on all who knew her.

Painted by a Master's hand.

Atomic

I get downright philosophical at times. Thoreau would be proud. Well, except he'd be actually out there in the snow, but whatever. He didn't live as simply as he liked to say he did, anyhow, the faker.

************************************

They come out of nowhere, tripping their nearly silent way from west to east across the frozen bracken, surefooted on the snow blanketing marshland ice. Three of them, one after another, delicate heads sloping from alerted ears, soft eyes flicking to where I stand, motionless, held in the magic of this moment.

I knew there were deer here: months ago we watched a doe nibble on the autumn foliage at the edge of this wetland pocketed between our house and those across the road. We watched her and marveled and thought perhaps a salt lick might lure more of them to the same place.

These doe are not here for salt, but they have wandered across backyards and through the trees and across the roads to wind up here, heads poised and alert to sense danger and trigger flight.

Ironic, really, that it is here in the midst of concrete and complexes where they face the dangers of engine-hearted monsters and sometimes poisoned ground that they also find safety. No hunting here, even when in season.

They have adapted, really, as have so many other creatures of wood and field. They have learned that even in the lands of human twisting there are places of refuge, safety, and food. The marshlands are such, protected by practicality as well as jurisprudence from the depredations of developers. No doubt they have learned that humans grow food in small plots as well as large. My friend Jim curses creatures such as these, nature's thieves who strip his garden despite fences.

I remember a nighttime walk a lifetime ago, it seems, when I was young and in angst and wandering the complex where I lived with--oh, I don't even remember which college roommate any longer, and I came across a fat raccoon raiding the garbage dump. They're the ones perhaps best adapted to this suburban life--well, other than the truly domesticated animals like dogs and cats, and the so-called vermin like mice and rats and cockroaches. We are less alone than we like to think, we high and mighty humans.

I sat upon the fence some fifteen feet away and watched him. He sat and watched me back, this furry bandit poised on corrugated metal, a piece of (to a raccoon) mouthwatering delicacy clutched in clever hands. After some time, he decided I wasn't planning on interfering with his feast, and he returned to rummaging and munching, sorting and tasting. He seemed almost human, working there, those amazing paws more like hands in their agility and sensitivity. A rotund little drifter, salvaging treasure from wealthier men's leavings.

We do that, you know. We humans. We cast the guise of humanity over all we see, seeing ourselves in the creatures inhabiting the world around us. What if it is more properly the reverse? We are outnumbered, after all. It makes more logical sense that we take on the attributes of those we see in nature, picking this and that, imitating family function and social construct and interpersonal (ah, but there is that word person there) relationship.

Or, perhaps, we all hold elements of each other in ourselves. We are born of one world, one earth, one all-encompassing macrocosm that contains all the millions and billions of microcosms like atoms and molecules and compounds summing up the whole of one being...

My nose is running slightly in the cold, and I sniff quietly. The largest doe's ears flicker again, and slowly all three move through the clearing, enter the brush on the far side, and vanish from my sight.

Death And A New Beginning

The end-of-year holidays are always a bit hard, really, what with all the chaos and extended family and children running around getting underfoot and underskin and more extended family and build up of HOLIDAY HOLIDAY HOLIDAY and then it's all over and everything's just a bit flattish.

Plus there's my birthday shoved in there, just wedged in anywhere it might fit, and here's the thing that sucks about having a Christmas birthday (it's not the present thing, because on the whole my people are quite good about realizing that if everyone else gets different presents for Christmas vs. birthday, then it's only fair that I do too, unless it's something Really Big that counts for both by the sheer Bigness of it all): even when people do acknowledge your birthday and even want to celebrate it, there's no point at all in celebrating it on the day itself, and what with all the exhaustion and business and familyness of the season, it's entirely too difficult to get your favorite people together to celebrate at all.

I'm thinking seriously of having my birthday celebration in June instead.

I've been anxious and on edge and horrifically tearful this last week. I did not cry on Christmas, thank God, because I've had too many Christmases spent in tears and I'm quite done with that, thankyouverymuch, but I have cried more in the last few days than I have over the entire last year. I'm not a very tearful person, really. I might get anxious or angry or melancholy or even suspiciously moist about the optical orbs, but actually tearful? Wet cheeks and reddened eyes? Crying into my pillow or a tissue? Not so much.

MTL has been patient and loving and comforting and rather alarmed. After all, when one climbs into bed at the end of a long day and wraps one's arms about one's beloved and then realizes that she's starting to gasp and shake with unexpected sobs, one does tend to become a little concerned. Well, at least he does. Rather than angry and shouty, like some people might be. He did remind me gently that I don't have to try to be strong all the time just because he's going through stressful times too--his shoulders are broad, after all.

It's what I'm here for, he said, and so I cried on those shoulders for a while, and then he made me laugh and I was finally able to fall asleep.

This time of year is a muddle of beginnings and endings, births and deaths. The last two years have been such a muddle of the same for me. And although I love so much of where life has brought me, the strain of the journey has taken its toll. There are new stresses in this new life as well: new family, new extended family, changing relationships, changing perspectives.

I think the bulk of my pain and rage (because those tears have been as much in anger as sorrow) lies in grieving the death of certain hopes and dreams that I've clung to for three long decades. Hopes that I would someday receive certain intangible things from extended family that, I now realize, I will never get. Dreams of a kind of acceptance and approval and pride that would, in reality, require the sacrifice of who I am, this person I've taken so long to be able to love.

A beloved cousin, one of my fellow Black Sheep, recently said to me that he knew from childhood that I would never fully fit into the parameters of expectation and acceptance in our Family. To do so would mean a rejection of who I actually am.

He's right. But facing that requires setting aside a lingering hope that somehow, someday, my Family (that huge, insane, ridiculously respected, secretly dysfunctional, looming, impossible Family) would actually be proud of me for exactly who and what I am, without a checklist of what must change for that to happen.

And realistically? That doesn't exist for anyone. It's not the human way.

Still...it's a death. So I'm grieving.

Apparently I'm currently stuck in the Anger stage.

But with each death comes a new beginning. Just like the passing of the old year gives birth to the new one.

Last night DMB helped the kids make pita pizzas while My True Love took me out for a steak dinner, just the two of us. Then we came home and played silly Wii games and watched a silly movie and ate chips n dip and drank sparkling juice and stayed up just long enough to watch the ball drop before crawling into bed like the old farts we are.

Today, we're all lazing about watching MTL rock Super Mario Bros on the Wii.

Just us. Just me and my family.

Grace Notes

This has been a hard week. You'd think that having two snow days to start out the week would make it Teh Awesome, and it kinda sorta did, but driving on the Worst Ever In People's Memory roads wasn't a great joy, and the last couple of weeks have tended to be full of Stress! Stress! Drama! while quite short on Sleep! Blessed Sleep! Also, imagine the fun of trying to cram five days' worth of work into three before the students flee for a two-week break. Fun Times.

So stomachs have been clenched, muscles have been knotted, and teeth have been gritted. Needless to say, tempers have also been short.

Yesterday, in fact, MTL arrived home in a horrible mood--the worst, he confessed, since we've been together. My mood wasn't sunshine and daisies either. At one point, while trying to convince the %&#()@ cabinet drawer to get back on its runner and slide back in dammit, I slid back against the opposing cabinet, lowered my head to my knees, and let the tears just flow for a little while. It's all just the buildup of everything that has been going on, especially with The Dark One, and work stress, and extended family stress, and reaching a point of Deep Core Stuff in therapy, and....yeah.

Fortunately for those around us, MTL and I are self-aware enough to clamp down on our tongues and do our damnedest to Think before we React when we're highly stressed. I won't say we didn't trip up a bit last night, but there weren't the rages or tempestuous fights or OMG EVERYONE JUST GO AWAY moments that could very well happen at times like that.

Thank God. Which I mean literally, because I believe He helped, even if it was just having our guardian angels lay a finger on our lips from time to time so they didn't open until we'd had a moment to think first. And I'm also thankful that He gave us each other, because being able to debrief with and vent to and comfort each other goes a long way toward making it all survivable.

Today...well, today is a new day. MTL didn't get much sleep again last night, but I did, so at least one of us has some renewed energy to deal with Stuff. And it's the last day of school before Winter Break. And my students are being very sweet.

You know, it tends to be elementary teachers who get the cache of holiday gifts (which reminds me--OOPS) more so than secondary, but sometimes we still get a little something here and there from kids who want to suck up love us. My kids know my weakness. Oh yes, they do. A dear former student who was very sad to discover she would  not have me for honors English 11 this year showed up a couple of days ago with an adorable frosted sugar cookie man. Today another student handed me a heavy gift bag that contains a massive box of fancy European cookies. Yet another gave me a box of six Godiva Truffle Bars and a $10 Godiva gift card. (The girl is GOOD.) And knowing my tenth graders, I'll most likely have another few gifts as the day goes on.

But you know what my favorite gift was today? The handwritten note that accompanied the Godiva. Inside, it reads:

Dear Ms. [TeacherMommy],
So I swear to god, I'm not just kissing ass when I say this, but, thanks for being the first teacher in 5 years to make me love English again.
It used to be my favorite subject and I'm not sure what happened, but I'm actually starting to enjoy it finally.
So thanks.

I really need to start scrapbooking all those kinds of notes and cards and emails and whatnot. That's the sort of thing to pull out on the rough days.

Life is messy and difficult and sometimes overwhelming, but it's the little things that matter. The notes of appreciation from students, the kisses and cuddles and You're so pretty, Mommy! from my kidlets, the teasing from my stepson that says he is comfortable and affectionate with me in his own way, the I love you! on the phone from my younger stepdaughter, walking out to a car scraped off and warming up each morning thanks to MTL, the look in his eyes when he sees me, the words of appreciation and love that he gives me for the things I do to keep this crazy family up and running, laughter around the table while we eat or play UNO...

And above all, the sense that as crazy as life can be, I am Home.

Checking Myself

I stood in the Self Check Out lane for far too long, growing increasingly impatient with the fumbling idiots who apparently couldn't handle a process that a monkey could figure out. Why do so many seniors choose that lane and then demand the undivided attention of the lane monitor to help them lift each item and scan it through? Don't they realize that completely negates the purpose of SELF Check Out?

I was fuming by the time I stepped up to a scanner to run through my five grocery items. As I quickly and competently sped through the process, I noticed that the woman at the scanner next to me had run into an issue. She had run through a dozen cans of Pringles under a misunderstanding about the sale price and wanted to void them out--but, as the monitor tried to explain several times with little success, could no longer void them because she had already run through her card as well.

Around this time I noticed that, having run my own debit card through, the machine was stalled in a "Please Wait..." status. I growled and jabbed the "Call for Assistance" button. Some use that would be, with Ms. Don't Know How To Understand Basic Explanations still mumbling about the Pringles over there. Why does this sort of technical snafu always happen when I'm in a hurry? And when someone else is monopolizing the monitor? The day was just getting worse and worse. It had been bad enough navigating the treacherous traffic getting there, since the roads were filled with idiot drivers who needed to lose their licenses. The store hadn't had the meat I needed for dinner in a couple of days. It had been a crazy day following a crazy weekend. My feet were killing me. Now this.

I tapped my feet, impatient, huffing just loudly enough to let the monitor know I was waiting. She glanced at me, then focused again on convincing the other shopper to let her void the entire purchase and just run everything through again.

Finally, she succeeded with Ms. What Do You Mean I Can't Do That? and came over to me. She was an older woman with short, curling grey hair. She showed no sign of impatience or exasperation, and instead greeted me with a pleasant smile and an apology for my wait. I curtly explained my problem, and she glanced at the screen.

Oh, well, have you pressed the End Order and Pay button yet, dear? You ran your card through, but it won't complete everything until you press that. She smiled at me again, no trace of sarcasm or impatience to be found in her voice or face.

My face flushed. I meekly extended my finger, pressed the button, and watched as the machine finished the process and spit out my receipt.

There you go, dear. I know, sometimes it's a little confusing! I'm sorry again you had to wait. Thank you for your patience! She patted me affectionately on my shoulders and moved toward her monitoring station.

I quietly picked up my bags and left the store, mumbling a sheepish Thank you! as I passed her.

You're welcome. Merry Christmas! she replied.

I've been bitching lately about the lack of basic human decency in the world around me, about all these ungrateful, impatient, rude people I encounter every day.

It took a trip to the grocery store to make me realize that I'm part of the problem.

Forget waiting for the New Year for a change of attitude. It's time to start now.

Where I Am

Once upon a time, lots of people were reading this blog and I was posting just about every day. Not so much these days. In fact, it's been a rare post lately around here.

I just haven't felt much like writing. And when post ideas DO pop into my head, I'm invariably in the car or shower, and by the time I'm where my computer is, all thought of posting has vanished.

Truth be told, there just isn't much going on that I feel like blogging. I stress enough about the politics of teaching without putting it out here and getting all sorts of comments on it that will make me feel more stabby than I already do. Despite nixing the emailing of posts (which did help, I will admit) there are still things I don't feel comfortable posting here for privacy's sake. And I've never really been the sort of mommyblogger to write post after post about how dang cute those kidlets are (even though they are.) I can't pull it off without just being boring as hell.

The biggest reason, though?

Life is different these days. Despite the occasional bit of angst over kidlets and stepkidlets and the whole merging of families bit, life is remarkably drama-free.

In fact, a major component in The Dark One's desire to live with her mother instead of us is because, according to her, we're boring. And by boring, she means drama-free. Whereas life at her mother's is full of chaos and drama and this, again according to her, is far more interesting.

We think we can live with being boring if that's what it takes.

Personally, I love where my life is now, crazy as it can be at times. But she's right about it being quite lacking in the Drama area. And that means that it is also quite lacking in the Fascinating Blog Fodder area as well.

There's no more angst over The Ex. No more agonizing over decisions and the relationship's disintegration. We're divorced, quite amicably in the end. We've become MUCH better at communicating and working through the occasional issue. We don't yell or argue any more. We're almost friendly. Remarkably, we are far more functional as ex-spouses and co-parents than we EVER were as a couple. And I mean EVER. It's a good place to be.

My depression has lifted remarkably. Not that my journey is over: in fact, I will be returning to therapy in a week or so to work through some other old issues that need addressing. It's not a major crisis, though, and it's not really depression. Just...stuff that I need to face and haven't for, oh, three decades or so. At this point, I'm not comfortable writing about it here, but maybe I will later. Maybe. This would also be a reason I haven't been writing much poetry on here--poetry has been a major form of catharsis for me, and there just isn't that much Stuff to work through that way lately.

And my home life? My home life is happy. I love MTL more deeply than I ever knew I could love anyone. I am loved, deeply and completely and thoroughly and without a doubt. We have our little spats from time to time, and then we work through them and learn from them and move on. We're learning how to parent together in a blended family. There are the obstacles that come with this sort of paradigm shift, but we're facing them together. It's a good life, an incredibly good life, and I feel blessed every day to have been given such a life. I feel blessed every day that after all the crap I went through and all the mistakes I made and all the pain and heartache, I got to meet the love of my life. And we get to grow old together, which is happening sooner rather than later with all our joint and back issues. We CREAK, people. We're going to be that old couple inching along with walkers and wheelchairs. But we'll be holding hands every chance we get.

(We'll also be the old couple who delights in embarrassing their kids and grandkids every chance we get. Trust me on that one. ANY WAY WE CAN.)

Isn't it strange how being happy dries up my blog posts? It does.

So maybe I am boring now. I'm certainly not bored.

Maybe it's just that life has become so much more worth living in real time, rather than online.

Sometimes Eventually Happens

How do you and MTL deal with real life so easily? she asked, and I sat there thinking how on earth to respond to that. It was a bit of a shocker, really. I don't view myself as someone who "deals" all that well, truth be told, considering the more or less daily soap opera playing out in my head for three decades. Days of My Life: now with more child actors.

But I think I know from whence her question came. She and her best friend, both former students, had called me up late at night in fear and anguish, and MTL and I had gathered them up, plunged into their drama, and been the safe haven they could not find elsewhere. She also knows a good bit about my own drama played out over the last two years. And because of their own sufferings, I had talked with them about what happened when I was five.

I suppose MTL and I have dealt with "real life" and its sorrows better than many. It's the "easily" part that struck me, because it has not been that, not for either of us. What seemed so easy to her?

It isn't really our own strength, I told her. We both have faith in God, not to take all the hardships away or make everything go right, but to give us the strength we need to deal with what comes. We've both had to lean on him pretty heavily at times. That's what makes it look easier than it is.

I've been reminded these last two weeks just how much I do need to rely on that strength and grace, because life has been messy and draining and complicated. Those friends' drama, with its unhappy and maddening and ongoing outcome. Learning the ins and outs of a blended family and providing for and monitoring and parenting five children (plus the occasional friend staying over, which makes us a full-blown Brady Bunch even without the kitten). Attempting to deal with an angst-ridden fourteen-year-old girl who does not want to go to a new school in a new district with new people on top of starting high school.

It's bringing back some awful memories, that last one. I'm remembering too well the anger and depression of being fourteen, coming back to Michigan for a one year furlough, going into my sophomore year with people I either did not know or who might remember me vaguely from fifth grade as that weird girl from Africa. And who wants to make friends with someone who doesn't have a clue about anything that is Important like the popular clothes and music and movies and TV shows, and will be leaving at the end of the year anyway?

I get it. All too well. Add all that drama to the natural angst of being female and fourteen...

It's been interesting around here.

So last weekend when The Dark One invited me and MTL to go with her to her church (she wanted us there! with her! in a public place!) we went. We were rather delighted with the service. And the pastor, who is an energetic young man with four kids and dreadlocks. We'll be going back.

Before his sermon, Pastor Devine (pronounced "Devin") talked about the need to hand over all our burdens and worries to God so that we could come freely before Him, and he asked us to bow our heads and then raise a hand if we were in a situation where we needed that strength and grace. My right hand shot up. I felt MTL's hand cover my other, and we held each other tight as we prayed. There's grace right there, I thought, this man standing beside me.

This week has been a testing of that prayer. Each day has gotten busier and crazier as I have performed the tasks of chauffeur, launderer, cook, maid, mother, stepmother, and teacher. Yesterday was the peak. I hadn't actually written out a list of everything I needed to accomplish (which might have helped my focus, really), but if I had, it would have covered at least two pages.

At one point I caught myself getting strident as I urged the children to get their chores done and rooms cleaned before I had to take the four oldest (MTL's three + The Dark One's BFF, who has adopted us as her parents and calls us Mommy and Daddy) the 50-minute drive out to their mother's place. One of the many, many things I've learned from this new family experience is that when I start getting strident, things get worse. The kids get sulky, resentment builds, and I end up feeling guilty and mean.

So I took a break. I went upstairs and closed myself away in the sanctuary of our bedroom, and I picked up the book I had grabbed at random off my bedside table the day before. It was a God-step, because in the pages of Anne Lamott's Grace (Eventually) I found the words I needed to bring me back to center, accompanied by the wry humor that appeals to me about her work. I even underlined some lines, the ones that spoke to me and reminded me that (1) we're all in this together and we're all a mess, (2) I'm not in charge, (3) yes, parenting is hard, but that's normal, and (4) God loves me and sometimes that's not a warm and fuzzy thing.

Let me share, because she puts it all so much better than I can (well, outside my head, where this blog post was ever so much more eloquent this morning, let me tell you):

We're invited more deeply into this mystery on a daily basis, to be here as one-of; a mess like everyone else, and not in charge. That's why we hate it. (125)

Why was he [her son Sam] sabotaging himself like this...and for what? Well, this is what teenagers have to do, because otherwise they would never be able to leave home and go off to become their own people. Kids who are very close to their parents often become the worst shits, and they have to make the parents the villains so they can break free without having it hurt too much. Otherwise, the parents would have to throw rocks at them to get them out of the house. (190)

It turns out that all kids have this one tiny inbred glitch: they have their own sin, their own stains, their own will. Putting aside for a moment the divine truth of their natures, all of them are wrecked, just like the rest of us. That is the fly in the ointment... (193-194)

I had behaved badly? It all started up in me again, but this time it didn't take over, because something got there first. You want to know how big God's love is? The answer is: It's very big. It's bigger than you're comfortable with. (125)

Then I said the stupidest thing to God: I said, "I'll do anything you say." Now this always gets Jesus' attention. I could feel him look over, sideways, and steeple his fingers. And smile, that pleased-with-himself smile. "Good," I heard him say. "Now you're talking. So go home already, and deal with it." (192)

So I took a deep breath and tossed a mute Help! and I'm sorry! and Thank You! up to God, girded my mental loins, and headed back into the fray. But I made sure to talk to The Padawan and apologize for my tone and thank him for all the help he's been giving and the good job he's been doing with his chores and the little kids. And I took the time to talk to KlutzGirl about how I know it's hard to suddenly be the only girl with a bunch of boys so much of the time. And I made sure to give DramaBoy and The Widget some hugs and cuddles, however brief, in between dashing about Getting Things Done. And when I picked The Dark One up from her orientation that she hadn't wanted to attend and over which she had actually cried, I took her to 7-11 to buy a Monster, and I told her how proud I was of her for going and trying even when she really really really didn't want to.

That's grace, really, in those small yet not-so-small moments: the strength and patience to do what needs to be done without losing track of the hearts and minds and souls of those God has placed in your life. It's stretching me, making me grow in ways I never dreamed, widening my capacity for love and patience. If you had given me the same sort of day with the same sort of To-Do list just a couple of months ago, I would have broken down. Instead, the day ended in smiles and laughter and connectedness.

It all has its rewards. Last night when MTL held me close and told me how much he loves me and how much he appreciates everything I do, I told him that I finally am starting to understand what some of my friends have been saying: these friends with big families and crazy lives who say that they find joy in the insanity, that they have a sense of fulfillment in parenting such large broods.

I feel the challenge, yes, but I'm also feeling the blessing.

Today they're all gone, all of these children small and large, off to their other homes and other parents. There's a part of me that relishes the silence and sanity and prospect of uninterrupted hours spent with MTL. And there is, against all logic, a large part of me that misses them and their noise and squabbling and laughter and craziness.

It's not easy, this life. But it's full of unexpected grace and joy.

--------------------------------------------------
All quotes taken from Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith, by Anne Lamott.

Ten Sensations

Sights I Love To See:

• all four children sitting on a green blanket sharing green grapes as their afternoon snack
• The Widget folding a blanket, however awkwardly, in his desire to Help
• chocolate pudding traces smeared around small mouths
• the stirring of wind through the leaves, a breeze alleviating the heavy heat of the day
• a grin on DramaBoy's face, frequent on a day when he has been Having Fun and Avoiding Trouble

Sounds I Love To Hear:

• the giggles of my Widget when I tackle him with kisses all over his neck and face
• the laughter of my children, biological and otherwise, as they play games of their own invention all over the living room and down the hall
• the beep of a text message arriving from DraftQueen or MTL
• the swooosh of the dish- and clothes-washers running, evidence of a reduction in the level of messiness about the place
• the click of the downstairs door signaling MTL's return home

There Are Things That Make Me Sad: These Are Not Some of Them*

What's been making TeacherMommy giggle this week? Glad you asked.

A "letter of appreciation" from a former student for Teacher Appreciation Week:

Dear Ms. TeacherMommy,

U made me learn how 2 right bettr. eye din't thenk u wood help me 2 right as good as eye do now!

U R

AWESUM!

Sincerely, Steve H. :)

------------

A letter from daycare I found sitting on the dining room table when I returned to the house last night, obviously left there via the ex for my enjoyment information:

Dear Mr. or Mrs. TeacherMommy,

Today DramaBoy did not choose good choice at naptime, so we are sitting down and talking about what he chose to do instead. DramaBoy has told me that at naptime we are supposed to be quiet and stay on our cots. DramaBoy told me instead he was playing around and not listening to the teacher. I have asked DramaBoy if tomorrow he will make better choices and listen to the teacher when she tells him to be quieter and he says he will try but might need me to sit by him, to which I agreed. If he makes good choices tomorrow at the end of naptime we will draw nice pictures and write a good letter.

Thank you,
Ms. D-------

(The kicker? DramaBoy wrote his name at the bottom too. IT'S HIS FIRST BEHAVIORAL CONTRACT, PEOPLES.)

------------

From the car on the way to school/work this morning:

DramaBoy: Mama, do you like Hannah Montana?

TeacherMommy: No, I don't really like Hannah Montana very much, baby.

DramaBoy: But why don't you like her? Girls LIKE Hannah Montana!

------------

Gems gleaned from going over rough drafts of the paper affectionately known as The Bitch:

Harriet Beecher Stowe aroused many people through her very famous and controversial book, Uncle Tom's Cabin.

This theme was completely utilized towards the end of Uncle Tom's Cabin when the beloved hero, Uncle Tom, is brutally beaten to death by a viscous slave driver.

Through Twain's life, his experiences and wisdom seldom come, molded the modern author into the sculpture he is today.

(I can't help but wonder--did the first of those have anything to do with the slave driver's stickiness in the second? I know. Ewwwww.)

------------

And the fourth thing that's made me giggle?

All the snarky, funny, wonderful comments and emails and texts and whatnot my friends and family have been sending. I big puffy heart you all.

-----------------------------------------
*Inspired by the song "Things" from my favorite children's CD (it's #19 on the songlist)

I Didn't Anticipate This When I Chose My Nom de Plume

7 Quick Takes Friday

--1--

Today did not start well. The boylets have gotten into the habit of staying up far too late regardless of when I put them to bed, and last night was no exception. I sleep downstairs on the couch, too far away to monitor all that happens up there after lights out, and I discovered this morning that The Widget had committed the No-No (NO NO NO!!!!) of playing with my makeup. An eyeshadow container displayed mini-finger-sized gouges, which also explained the interesting brown war-paint that decorated his sleeping face. I suppose I should be happy it was makeup and not, well, Other Brown Stuff.

So we began the day with whining and complaining and Consequences. I was all set for the day to be a Horrible, Terrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day.

Then I got my Good Morning text from MTL.

The Widget wore Big Boy Underwear to school today, because he has finally turned the corner with potty training.

The boylets stopped whining and gave me kisses instead.

The Color Guard Booster Parents coffee stand had cherry-flavored coffee this morning.

And I started counting my blessings.

--2--

One of my students who had Messed Up begged me for mercy over email the other day. He showed up with donuts and coffee for me this morning. My students seem to have figured out my weaknesses. They are:

• Bavarian Creme or Boston Creme donuts
• Brownies, especially thick gooey fudgy ones like another contrite student brought me yesterday which were the Best Brownies Ever. I had to scoop them into my mouth WITH A SPOON. And with every bite, I giggled. No, really. And then I took the rest to MTL and he nearly wept with every bite. That student gets an A+, he informed me. For everything. Especially if he makes them again.
• Godiva dark chocolate bars with raspberry filling
• Dark chocolate anything, really
• Especially paired with raspberry, for that matter
• Food, now that I think about it

--3--

My waistline is becoming an issue, what with all the Tribute and Mercy Offerings and the lack of exercise due to OMG MY BACK AND HIPS OMG.

My physical therapist said yesterday would be our last session until fall, when hopefully some of my OMG STRESS OMG will fade and he can focus more on my neck and upper back issues. In the meantime, I am carrying on with the alignment exercises and strengthening exercises and the strange things I do with a long white noodle and a small yellow ball. Don't ask.

I asked what kind of exercise I am allowed to do that would address my waistline and brownie muffin-tops. He said nothing weight-bearing or high-impact (so no Zumba, *sob*). Ideally, I should do twenty minutes on a stationary bicycle three times a week, achieving an aerobic heart rate level of 120-130 bpm.

This would be lovely, except I do not have a stationary bike and am a bit hesitant to fork over cash for membership at a fitness center, what with OMG NO MONEY OMG and only using one machine for an hour a week. I suppose I could exercise here at school, but that would involve finding space and time in the weight room, as well as puffing and swearing sweating away in front of students. Oy. Must think on this.

But at least I have options and my hips and back are so very much better and I cannot recommend my physical therapist highly enough because he is a miracle worker.

--4--

Not all students clog cheer up my heart with chocolate alone. Yesterday a young lady came in the room with her mother.  I had her two years ago as a sophomore, and she has visited me frequently since then. She came yesterday, however, to say Goodbye. For various personal reasons, she had decided to withdraw from school, get her GED instead, and pursue college after that. But she came to find me first.

I wanted to tell you, she said, that I'll miss you and you were the most influential teacher I've ever had.

Later one of the co-principals told me she had mentioned my name in her exit interview and said I was one of the only people who had made her academic experience a positive one.

I can't win every student's heart, and that's not the reason I'm here, but hearing these things from time to time is what makes this career worth all the stress and exasperation and downright pain.

--5-- 

My classroom has scattered memorabilia from current and former students all over the walls and boards. Bizarre cartoons, surrealistic sketches and paintings and drawings, amusing or stunning posters and projects, senior pictures, little notes of affection and/or snark. This morning a student whose schedule change required her to switch to a different English teacher at the semester break came to visit before her next class. She left behind a markered note on my board: Kaylee <3s you!

I like Ms. P, she said, but I miss your class so much. I wish I hadn't had to switch out!

She had nearly failed my class first semester. Oddly enough, quite frequently it's the students who fail or came very close to it who come back and say they miss me the most. I was always an academic high achiever: I cannot help but wonder why I connect so strongly with students who struggle in the classroom setting.

It certainly isn't because I coddle them. I'm more likely to give them a verbal kick in the ass for not living up to their potential. I believe in Tough Love. Success only matters if you earn it.

--6--

I've never considered myself a maternal sort of teacher. At least, not in the gentle, cuddly, sweet sort of way. Not that I'm a soulless sort. I'm fairly decent at adjusting my approach to individual students as appropriate, and I've had my share of sessions comforting a distraught student in the hall. Nevertheless, I'm more likely to kick them in the ass (metaphorically speaking) than not.

So I was caught off guard this year when a close-to-my-heart former student told me he sees me as his mom, certainly more so than his biological mother (let's just say they have a difficult relationship). And then when I had a good half-dozen or so current students tell me I sound like their mothers. And then I realized that a good number of the comments I leave on former (as in graduated) students' Facebook Walls have a rather mothering tone to them.

In a snarky, raised-eyebrow, slap-upside-the-head sort of way.

I mean, I'm barely old enough to be the biological mother to my (younger) current students, and even then I would have had to be a teen mother! Somehow, without meaning to, I've crossed some invisible border into Mom territory. Although definitely more on the Roseanne (but with WAY more class) (I hope) (please God) side of the mothering spectrum than the June Cleaver one.

I'm not sure what to think about that. I'm still figuring out how to be Mom to my biological kids without adding a few hundred more to the list.

--7--

Those kids and those relationships, however, are the real reason I do what I do. It's the main reason I've stayed in the high school arena rather than moving up to the college level, as was my original plan when I started this career. I would miss the kind of interaction I can have with high school students.

There are perks to maintaining those connections, too. Tonight I will attend a play at Wayne State University in which a former student is performing, and I'm going for free. She gave me a comp ticket out of gratitude for a small favor I did for her. MTL is going along, and we'll go out for coffee with my gorgeous, talented former student afterward. And who will be watching my kidlets while I do this, you ask? Yet another former student. One of the four or five former students who babysit for me. At a marvelously reduced rate, I should note, and occasionally with my offer of payment refused.

Because they love me.

I may never have a building named after me or a statue erected in my honor or be a household name. But when I look at my life and what I do and why I do it...

I have not wasted my time.

Today is a good day.

----------------------------------------

As a two-for-one, today is also Flog Yo Blog Friday over on MummyTime. Join in the awesome!

Wanderings and Wakings

7 Quick Takes Friday

---1---

I yawn and flick the cursor from window to window. No new messages. No new comments. Nothing has changed in the last two minutes. I stare blankly at the screen, willing the words to spill from my fingertips through the keyboard onto the silicon page.

I feel the need to write deep and stirring prose about how Spring has Sprung, but there are all these annoying people sitting around me discussing things like curriculum pacing and summer reading choices and rubrics and syntax. You'd think such things would excite me, but no, they don't. Not in this context, at any rate. These meetings seem to be created for the sole purpose of dismantling any progress that has been made in previous meetings or decisions that have been made by curriculum committees.

Let me return to my classroom. More will be done there than in this room full of professional blathering.

---2---

I watch his hand smoothly shift the mouse over the desk, expertly locating and opening the program he wants. Odd little creatures bounce onto the screen and he scrolls through the options.

Look at this one, Mama! he crows as a flame-painted alien comes into view. This one is a bad guy because he's all scary! But this one, he says as a panda-like being takes its place at center, is a good guy because he is cute.

I want to tell him that appearances can be deceiving, that not all that is beautiful or adorable or cute in appearance will be good. I want to warn him that covers conceal, that shiny can coat deep rot, that outer loveliness can shield evil. Likewise, that which appears fearsome may be pure within.

I watch his innocence and cannot bring myself to lecture it away today.

It is cute! I say, and my eyes trace the beauty of his precious face.

---3---

My fingers drum the steering wheel, my left foot keeping time with the rhythm thrumming through the car. I sing with abandon, carefree in my isolation as I speed along the highway.

You make me smile like the sun
Fall out of bed, sing like bird
Dizzy in my head, spin like a record
Crazy on a Sunday night
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold, buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild
Ohh, you make me smile

The wind from the open window tosses my hair wildly about my face. I dance in my seat and sing, happy in my space, happy in my self.

---4---

Yesterday the temperature climbed into the low eighties. Windows flung up in stuffy winter-shielded houses; windows rolled down in SUVs and station wagons and Hummers and compacts. Motorcycles appeared around every bend; convertibles sped sleekly along each road.

Today it is cooler and pearl-grey clouds shield the sun. Tomorrow will require long sleeves and windbreakers, just in time for the birthday party taking place in a park. The weather website says the chance of precipitation is low. Still, I am grateful I rented a covered gazebo and hope the chill of winter's lingering grasp will not chase off the guests.

Kites might fly farther than planned.

---5---

Strong hands slide under my shoulder blades and begin their patient, persistent movements to soothe my muscles back into place. My body resists: its bones and sinews have been twisted into these shortened, strained positions for so long that they no longer remember where they should be. The hands move in subtle persuasion.

My eyes cannot remain open. This is the fifth time I have lain here in this long, slow retraining. Every time I find myself dozing. Lazy thoughts drift through my mind, half-remembered images and snippets of ideas that trail away in peaceful demi-dreams.

He is teaching me how to restore my body back to where it should be, and I relish the ability to treat my pain at will. But I will miss this half-hour of somnolence and peace.

---6---

The relentless blare of my alarm yanks me from vague but blissful dreams. I switch it off and bury my face back in the pillow. Soft warmth weights my limbs with reluctance. Five more minutes. Maybe ten. Surely I can shower rapidly enough to make up the time.

Every morning feels earlier than the one before, this time of year. Two months from today I will walk through the school doors for the final time of this academic year. True, the occasional committee meeting and the early morning habits of my children will still wake me before I'd prefer, but for the rest of summer I will be able to sleep later than I may now. Two hours makes all the difference.

I groan and swing my legs over the side, stumble wearily to my feet, and wander towards hot water and soap. Today will be a two-coffee morning. But then, most of them have been, lately.

---7---

The flowers are waking up! he says, small body crouched low to greening earth, brown eyes sparkling inches away from shy crocuses.

The world wakes, and the birds trill the song of Nature's Morning. Slim branches that mere days ago stood stark and barren are fuzzed with budding leaves, verdant life sprung from winter's seeming death. The Judas tree I planted with my own hands bears no green in this early month, but subtle purple blossoms edge the sapling like evening shadows. It will grow again this year, thickening its limbs on its journey from adolescence.

The remnants of the farm this once was wend their wilding paths through the orthodox landscaping. Sharp tang of onion will scent the air. Grape leaves will climb sturdy trunks. Small raspberries will tempt small fingers to brave the danger of thorny vines. The sour cherry tree will bloom with the promise of cobbler to come.

For a moment, I feel Earth turning under my feet.

And Now For Something Completely Different. Like Shoes.

Oy. My stomach hurt all afternoon yesterday because of that post. Yeah, yeah, it was brave and resulted in good dialogue and yada yada yada, but as I said, OY. I'm way too thin-skinned for that kind of stuff.

Maybe it's very silly and insecure of me, but I seriously get freaked out that I'll lose friends over things like that. Fortunately, those kinds of  expectations about people are usually proven wrong. (I big puffy heart you people. Seriously.)

So. Let's "dialogue" about something completely different. Like shoes. Because with my back and hip pain (which is slowly being worked through--more on that another time--but still very present), I have been unable to wear my usual fabulous heels. Not only would doing so be Not Smart, but it hurts too much. The thing is that I really don't like wearing ordinary sneakers, and I think the vast majority of flats are just plain Ugly. With the weather warming up, I don't have the option of wearing my lovely Boots with the Furrrrr every day, either.

This meant I had to go shoe shopping.

I know. The sacrifices one must make.

DSW ended up being the place to go, with not only quite a few cute options, but Sales and Clearance, Oh My! And while if this whole stupid no-heels thing becomes more long term I will most definitely need to expand my shoedrobe, I have a small collection that Will Do For Now. I thought, for fun, I'd show you what I found. Here are four out of the five pairs I bought (not pictured: cute brown sneakers that didn't come along for the weekend) (also, I apologize for the poor lighting--they're way cuter than they look in these crappy photos):

First up: black flats with little tan--yes, that's tan--stitching and faux buckles

Next: cocoa brown flats with faux buttons. SO COMFY.

On the more casual front: black and taupe slip-on sneakers. They don't go up as far as they look--I wore these with black anklet socks. My feet look adorably small and cute in these. Heh.

And finally (not counting the brown sneakers not shown here, which are more sneakery and less slip-on): these awesome blue-grey sneakers with white stripes and chartreuse accents. Adorable. LOVE. Rapidly becoming my favorites.

So--what do you think? And if you know of some super-cute (and especially more dressy) styles that are available at DSW, Famous Footwear, and/or Payless (because that's where I shop, peoples), let me know.

My former chiropractor would be so proud. He was so against heels he once paid for a pair of flat boots as my Christmas present, when I was pregnant with DramaBoy. I kid you not.

Of course, with all this pain I'm having, maybe he had a point....

I'm going to pretend I didn't just think that.

Love, peace, and shoes to you all!

journey

we wander through this life
never knowing
who
or what
will come our way
and change us for all time

i used to fear the unknowing
of what was to come
(truth be told it scares me still)
but am finding adventure
in what lies next
around the bend

tears may have been my yesterdays
and may yet drench my tomorrrows
but today i laugh
and line my soul with delight

for sorrows fade with memory
even pain dulls its edge
when moments of joy become
frequent visitors instead

Just So You Know...

I really want to write a bit long post about the power and significance of words, because I've been having fabulous discussions with my tenth graders today about that (we're gearing up for A Raisin in the Sun and To Kill a Mockingbird), BUT

I'm busy busy busy and don't see it stopping soon.

HOWEVER

I'm glad to report that my weekend was much improving, my cold is almost gone, my back is (finally) on the mend, and I am much more cheerful in mind and spirit. Thank God for friends, family, Getting Things Done, a very helpful former student, the prospect of a snow day, the prospect of a fabulous road trip to see a very dear friend and possibly my sister (I'll call you about that, hon!), and some very nicely timed compliments from a few good-looking men.

Chin up and carry on!

This Isn't As Depressing a Post As It May Seem At First. Cross My (Fractured) Heart.

I'm not entirely sure what I did and whom I ticked off, but apparently I'm being punished this week.

At least I'm not alone: numerous friends and coworkers and students and family members have also been having a miserable week. So perhaps it's less about karma and more about...oh, I don't know, the impending doom of 2012 or some other lovely apocalyptic theory. At least we're all miserable together.

If it wasn't enough that I had my heart bruised and lost a relative, I also managed to injure my lower back. Multiple visits to the chiropractor and massage therapist have resulted in only temporary relief: this morning I tried to bend over to pull on my jeans and nearly had a coronary from the pain. Thank God my beloved brother stayed the night and was there to help me get the boys ready this morning. Okay, truth be told, he did everything from getting them dressed to buckling them into their car seats.

(You think he'd consider moving in and staying on the couch? No? Dammit.)

(I should have stayed in Detroit. I really am not fond of this birdnesting situation.)

I also have come down with the plague a horrific cold. Not only do I have the full force sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, fever, can't-sleep-and-Nyquil-can-suck-it sort of cold; every time I hack up a portion of lung, my back goes into spasms. Oh, and of course I look just sexy as all get out, yo. Exactly the sort of thing that makes one feel just peachy when one's self-esteem has already taken a major hit.

Tuesday, which was possibly the worst day of the week (it's hard to tell right now), I lost my temper with a student and said some things I should not have said. As a result, I ended up in a sit-down with an administrator and received my first-ever write-up. I was in the wrong, so I was rather resigned and mainly angry with myself for letting myself be so unprofessional.

There have been some bright spots. Yesterday that administrator decided to change the write-up to a verbal warning, since my history has been excellent otherwise. He knows I've been going through a great deal of hardship in this last year, and he specifically mentioned in the original write-up (as well as to my face) that he is impressed with my energy and determination to continue being an effective teacher despite my personal troubles. Hey: at least I'm not disappearing off the face of the earth like I did last year.

Earlier this week I had some delightful laughs at the expense of students' inadvertent malapropisms--there were some others that wouldn't convert well to storytelling (you had to be there)--and yesterday I found another. While looking over a student's rough draft, I read this sentence: There has been a penile system in place dating all the way back to when our country was first founded.

Well, if one looks at American history from a devoutly feminist point of view, he wasn't all that off the mark.

A truly bright spot, however, appeared this morning in the form of a visit from four of my tenth grade students. They showed up in my first hour class bearing gifts: a gorgeous bouquet of flowers, a box of homemade brownies, three of my favorite chocolate bar of all time (the Dark Chocolate with Raspberry, of course), and an extremely sweet card that read:

For now,
the important thing
is to know
you are not alone--
you're surrounded
by the loving thoughts
of so many
who care about you...
...so just be sure
to take care of yourself,
and do whatever
you need to do
to feel better.

And they signed it with the words: Hope your week gets better! <3 We love you.

So am I slipping into a black hole of depression this week? No. I'm hurting, yes. My heart, head, nose, throat, chest, back, hips...I'm a wreck. But even in the loneliest times, there always seems to be someone or something to keep me from heading into despair. I'm grateful.

Besides, I already have a permanent reminder that even in the worst of times, there is hope. The bird is singing. All I have to do is listen.

Sometimes the Road Seems Endless. It's a Good Thing I'm Building Up My Endurance.

You may have noticed that I had a bit of a meltdown yesterday, dark attempt at humor notwithstanding. I'd love to tell you that things improved after that last post, but I'd be lying. And since my resolution last year was to live with honesty, and I'm still working on that, I won't lie to you.

My day got worse.

Maybe I should rephrase that. Other than an unexpected (read: I forgot all about it and was caught off guard by the reminder that I would have to sit through one of those mind-numbing time-wasters) staff meeting after work, there wasn't much that really was BAD about the day itself. The roads were driveable. No one delivered horrible news to me. A dear friend offered to write one of my vocabulary exams--and in the spirit of asking for and accepting help, which was another resolution/lesson of my last year, I accepted.

Yet my mood continued to spiral down until the panic was in control and logic was out the window. Rage started taking over: anger at the world, life, the universe, everything. I wanted to hit something or someone. I drove home and desperately worked out. For those forty-some minutes, in which I was pleased to discover I'm getting a handle on this Zumba workout, I was able to let go...mostly. And then the rage came back. So I took a long hot shower. And the rage came back. I texted a friend and she called me back and I paced in the snow for who knows how long pouring out my anger and hurt and panic and fear.

She told me I'm allowed to break down, I'm allowed to have my weak moments, I'm allowed to admit that sometimes LIFE SUCKS. If I don't let go and let it out from time to time, it will just build up and fester and prevent me from being strong all the other days and times when I need to keep it all together. Since that's the sort of thing that got me into my huge mess last year in the first place, I have a feeling she's right.

You see, while talking to her I finally put my finger on the trigger to yesterday's debacle. I had been going through my exams from previous years so that I could draw from them for this semester's exams. And I was missing exams from this time last year. Why, I wondered, didn't I have anything for my eleventh graders at all?

And it hit me. Last year at this time I fell into a black hole. Last year at this time I was absent from work for around three weeks. I vanished. I had no exams prepared, piles of papers left ungraded, and no lesson plans left for those struggling to make sense of my classes. My amazing colleagues pulled everything together for me. They parcelled out the papers and got them graded. They pieced together exams from other teachers' after consulting with my students about what we had covered. The head counselor even created, from scratch, an essay exam for my Media Literacy class, since I was the only teacher in the school who taught or had ever taught that now-defunct elective.

(They did this, mind you, without a word of complaint or censure or guilt-tripping. They were deeply worried for me. When I finally returned, all I heard from anyone was how relieved they were that I was back and that if I needed ANYTHING, just ask. They have continued to be a source of amazing support and love and generosity in all the time since. I am so blessed.)

But yesterday, when I realized why I was missing so much information, I was swept back for a moment into that time of despair. While I am so very, very much better in almost every way in comparison to that time, nevertheless...It was so difficult to revisit that darkness, even for a moment. And then the sheer weight of responsibilities and the chaos of my life and the uncertainty of this time, a year later, crushed me.

When I am at that level of stress and panic, the best thing for me is some sort of physical outlet. If I creep into a corner, the darkness wins. So even though I had already done a grueling workout, I took a walk. I walked down the road as quickly as my legs and boots and the snow would let me. After only a few minutes two pieces of advice came to me--Heidi's mention of meditating techniques and Arby's advice to pray. I knew there was no way I could put together an extemporaneous prayer in my mental state at that time, so I began to run through the Lord's Prayer in my mind, over and over again. Gradually I found a rhythm to the words. It became a chant, a mantra and prayer that moved from my mind to my tongue as I found myself marching down that dark, empty, snowy road.

Our Father which art in Heaven
Hallowed be Thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On Earth as it is in Heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our debts
As we forgive our debtors
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil
For Thine is the kingdom
And the power
And the glory
Forever and ever
Amen

As the words became smoother and flowed more naturally off my tongue, my mind finally could focus enough on what I was saying. Certain parts jumped out at me.

Give us this day our daily bread: I struggle constantly to focus on the day at hand. I have learned not to linger on the past much, but I worry about the future, all the things that are to come and over which I have so very little control. Here I ask for what is enough for this day. This one day, this one moment, and the simplest needs. Bread. Nourishment for body and (if one goes off into the philosophical and religious significance of the word) soul. Sufficient unto this day...And that's what I need. Enough for this day. Tomorrow will be time to ask for what is needed for tomorrow.

Forgive us our debts: So much of my darkness, both last year and now, was of my own making. Debts are both sins (the word trespasses is often used here) and what is owed. I feel, so very often, that I owe so much, too much, to everyone. I feel as if I have wracked up such a tremendous load of spiritual and emotional debt that there is no way I can ever repay it all. And I'm right. I cannot pay it back. So here I ask that those debts be forgiven--both the sins and that which is owed--so that I may walk free and light again.

As we forgive our debtors: But there is a codecil. Just as I ask to be freed of those debts, so must I free others. When I cling to resentments and angers and hurts, I not only refuse to grant that freedom of debt to others, I also refuse to free myself from the burden of being the debt-holder. When I harbor anger because someone has hurt me, I only poison myself. When I harbor resentment because someone has not acted or done or said what I want from them, I only worsen the situation. Last night I expected someone to be a mindreader, to magically understand that I was in a very bad state without my having to really express it verbally, to somehow know exactly what to say and do to handle the situation. I had to let go of my resentment and, without anger and without censure, let that person know what was going on and what I needed. I let go of the debt. And we were both freed and lightened and drawn closer in understanding. This is how it needs to be, both with those we love and with God.

Lead us not into temptation/But deliver us from evil: Tom Shippey suggests that these two lines emphasize the dual nature of evil. One kind lies within us--it is internal in both source and effect. Therefore we (I) ask that God not "lead us"--or perhaps, more clearly, allow us to lead ourselves--into temptation and darkness. This is all too real to me. Most, if not all, of my distress yesterday was created within my own mind. It was my own darkness. It was my own evil. And if there was an external source of Evil playing on that weakness last night, urging me on towards acts and words of anger, misplacing my own pain onto others...well then, we (I) ask that God "deliver us" from evil, both of the internal and external sorts.

God has that power.

After almost two miles of walking and chanting, I was finally calm enough and clearheaded enough to think through my situation and my reactions; thank God that I had not, in fact, said or done any of the things I had felt the urge to say and do; and work through where to go from there.

So I went home. I did and said what was needed, and I received the comfort that I needed.

And I ate pizza.

And today is better.

I am not naive enough to think this will not happen again. But this time last year I had almost none of the tools or support or wisdom that I needed to face my darkness, and yesterday's experience taught me that this year is indeed different.

It's another day. It's another step on that winding road, and even though the fog lies thick on the path right now, I know I've seen a glimpse of the joy that lies ahead. So I'm choosing to continue walking.

But MAN do my legs hurt.

Twenty-Four Hour Sunday

I cannot sleep because my head hurts and at the same time a million thoughts are whirling through it. Perhaps the two are linked. I am finally drifting off around two in the morning when a friend who is far too young and doesn't realize that some people might need to sleep texts me and jerks me out of my doze.

I am still awake fifteen minutes later when my youngest son begins coughing and crying in his room. He has been suffering from the sniffles and his congestion is making him miserable. I lift him, his warm but thankfully not-feverish body solid in my arms, and take him to my bed. He falls asleep nestled against my chest, and then I manage a parenting twist on the classic hug-and-roll technique, depositing him safely beside me.

Half an hour later I am still awake, this time because there is no way I can sleep easily with a small sniffling person jamming his feet into my side. There is a noise from the doorway and I roll over to see my slightly larger small son shuffling in. Mama, I want to sleep with you. I can't sleep in my bed, he whispers. I sigh and open my arms, the signal for him to clamber over my body and take up most of what little space his brother has left. I rearrange both children and finally gain a precious ten inches of space for myself.

Slumber does not come easily when elbows and knees are being jammed into one's extremities with the occasional whack of a hand across one's face, but my children are kind enough to sleep in two hours later than usual, so I do not wake until almost eight in the morning. My bed is warm and full of snuggles.

************************

I survey the catastrophe that is the house in the aftermath of three small people having a late-night playdate. For a moment I regret passing on my friend's offer to help clean last night, but it was already almost 11:30 when we got back and she still needed to drive home with her little girl. I am glad my boys had so much fun, but the chaos is a bit overwhelming.

Time to clean up the mess! I announce to my small boys. You can watch TV while you clean up, but all these toys need to be put away. All the train stuff goes in that box, and the Legos in their bin, and everything else goes back on the toy shelves.

Can we have a snack? DramaBoy asks.

After you clean this up, I reply, and they slowly start to pick things up.

I climb the stairs and face the four large baskets of clean clothes waiting to be folded. With the boys downstairs working at a snail's pace while they watch Backyardigans, I am free to watch my non-kid-friendly shows like CSI and Cold Case and The Soup while I fold clothes. There's nothing like crime and gore and celebrity stupidity to make chores go faster.

************************

The giggles erupting from the bedroom alert me to my children's lack of focus. Snacks of chips and raisins and a lunch of macaroni and cheese have kept them going all day as they worked through their mess, but there's only so long they can concentrate on the task at hand. I walk in to discover them wrestling on the floor clad only in underwear and pull-ups. Thankfully they have already picked up the toys that could hurt them in their rough housing. All that's left are the clean clothes still strewn about the floor, now performing the role of wrestling mat.

I cannot bring myself to be stern with them. Their giggles are infectious and I soon am on the floor with them, turning the wrestling match into a tickling match with some wet raspberries thrown in for good measure. Finally they conquer me and I end up on my back, two small bodies bouncing merrily on my belly. Worn out, I rescue myself and stumble from the room, promising them a treat if they finish cleaning the room. I still have a duffle bag to pack and two more loads of laundry to wash, dry, and fold. Their giggles are diminished but still bubbling as I walk down the hall.

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Do you want to go out in our pajamas and go through a drive-through tonight, or do you want me to have pizza delivered? I ask the small Spiderman-clad boy in front of me.

I want to go to Lucky Duck Pizza and get pizza! he declares.

No, baby, I say. We're just in our pajamas and so if we go out, we have to go to Taco Bell or Arby's or somewhere like that.

We can wear our pajamas? he asks.

Yes, I say.

Mama? he asks, a twinkle beginning in his eyes.

What, honey? I say.

We have to wear our shoes if we're going to get our booty! he says and bursts into giggles.

I snort back laughter and hope he's referring to playing pirates.

************************

I sink deep into the liquid heat, the bubbles rising up until my chin is covered. I breathe the sweet scent of vanilla and exhale, muscles loosening one by one. I wiggle my toes against the end of the tub and reach for my book. I hear the hushed murmur of my boys' voices from their room but relax in the knowledge that they are unlikely to emerge again tonight. I open the pages and submerge myself in another mind's world. Perhaps by the time I crawl between the newly laundered sheets my own will be soothed enough to allow sleep to come quickly.

Silence falls upon the house.

Boylets, Brothers, and Bragging

Yesterday I got to see my two boylets for the first time in six days. The Widget was still asleep in his little daycare cot when I arrived, and I kissed his soft cheek until he awoke, realized it was me, and flung himself into my arms for a snuggly cuddle. Then we went off to find DramaBoy, who raced across the room with a joyous MAMA! and flung himself in turn into my arms, only to then begin whining and snarking about this and that for the next several hours. It's his way of letting me know I'm being punished for my absence. I may be used to it, but it doesn't make me any happier.

I also discovered, because I'm so on top of things, that last night was the official Holiday Celebration at daycare, and DramaBoy's class was scheduled to perform for parents. So we went back to the house and bumbled around for a couple of hours, but returned by six for the performance.

It was my first ever official holiday performance to attend as a parent!!!!

Holy crap, my kidlets are growing up.

It seems that every time I turn around (especially these days when I go for some time without seeing my boys) they're maturing and changing in leaps and bounds. The Widget's speech is expanding extraordinarily. No longer is everything in shorthand. Instead of simply demanding Water!, he now says Mama, I want water. Instead of simply observing Tree! when he sees a Christmas tree, he now says Look at Christmas tree! It is Christmas time! Instead of simply reporting [DramaBoy]! Hurt! Ow!, he now says Mama! [DramaBoy] hit me! He hurt me! (Ah, the joys of brotherhood.) He asks full questions. He plays little jokes. He carries on conversations instead of merely listening.

As for DramaBoy...Oh my. A week and a half ago he moved up from the Preschool class to the Pre-Kindergarten class. He is now the youngest in the class at just-barely-four. And last night when I was wandering around his classroom, I saw this:

He can write. He can write whole words, with readily identifiable letters, including both capital and lowercase, and they're more than just his name.

I had a mini-heart attack when I saw it, then promptly took a picture and texted it to half a dozen people.

Not to brag (okay, who am I kidding, I'm totally bragging), but his teacher told me that he is better at letter recognition and writing than quite a few of the kids who have been in that class for a year.

I'm so proud I can hardly stand it.

Then we went into another room where all the parents perched precariously on tiny chairs and about a dozen tiny people filed into the room and sang "Jingle Bell Rock" for us. DramaBoy knew every word and even did those fist/arm pump thingie motions when they sang the word "rock." So. Dang. Cute.

Then we ate lots of yummy food and the children played and I caught up with a good friend whose daughter is DramaBoy's best friend.

When we went back to the house, they ate some yoghurt and got into their superhero jammies and went to bed and had way too much fun talking and playing with each other until well after nine o'clock.

And my heart was full.

This Weekend I Went Snowmobiling and I More Than Survived

At first I felt like I would fly off the back of the monstrous black-and-yellow beast at any moment. My boots kept lifting off the footboards, my rear bounced on the seat with every bump, my faceplate kept tapping the back of his helmet. I clutched his jacket with a death grip, sure that with the next burst of speed my hands would be ripped away and I would be flung backwards to break my neck or legs or spine. All I could do was hold on for dear life and try to see enough of the trail ahead that I could anticipate the bumps and turns, just a little bit.

And it was fantastic.

I was determined to figure this out. Surely there was a better way to keep hold. I remembered he had warned me that this sport could be hard on the knees. If it was hard on the knees, then my legs must need to get more involved. So I experimented with my foot placement. It turned out that if I pressed my ankles and shins against the side of the machine, I was able to brace myself better. That was a start.

At the first stop we made, I cleared the snow away from the footboards and realized there were metal teeth built into the boards at regular intervals. Aha! A way to get my boots to stay on better! When we climbed back on, I jammed my boots into the teeth. At last: they could stay on the boards without having to brace them against the tiny ridge on the side. Now I could get my upper legs more involved. I soon realized that if I gripped the machine and his hips with my knees and thighs, I was suddenly secure.

I no longer had to grip his jacket until my fingers ached. Instead, I held on just enough to brace myself in the absence of handlebars and concentrated instead on learning to lean into the turns so that he wouldn't have to fight both the machine's weight and mine. Gradually I learned to spot where we'd need to lean, anticipate the need to raise my rear end off the seat and grip with my knees so that I was no longer jounced by the bumps. We began moving in concert, almost one being on the machine. My face ached with the width of my grin, stretching muscles chilled by the wind screaming through the small space beneath my faceplate.

That's when I learned that he had been going easy on me. He could sense my new confidence, my ability to hold on with my lower body rather than my hands. I had thought we were going fast before; now he showed me more of what this machine was capable. We roared down straightaways at speeds that tugged at my body, skimmed over rugged stretches, spun around curves with bodies at acute angles to the ground, soared over hilltops so that I yelled with delight on this rollercoaster of snow.

I was alive: not only alive, but Living.

We climbed a massive hill that rose above the trees, turned, and stopped. We dismounted, raised our faceplates, and gazed out over a variagated grey and blue landscape of hills and naked trees edging mistily into the distance, dark against a crimson winter sunset. We stood in silence a while, listening to the gentle sighing of the wind, soon drowned out by the distant rumble of racing machines on the trail below.

So is this something you find enjoyable? Would you want to do this more if you had a machine to drive? he asked at last, glancing at me.

I grinned again and sighed, the crisp slice of air tingling in my lungs.

Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.