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.

This Is Why I Should Probably Just Go Back To Bed. And Perhaps Organize My Shoes.

You may have picked up a hint or two that I am overtired and overstressed lately. Just a smidge. I hadn't realized just how much my mental processes have been affected, however, until I was standing up from giving the kidlets hugs at daycare this morning and spotted this:

Oh yes. Those are, indeed, shoes from two different sets of black boots. Please note that they fit my feet quite differently. What you can't spot from this angle is that the right boot's heel is about half an inch higher than the left, which means that I had been limping--yes, LIMPING--around for the previous half hour and hadn't even noticed. This is, as you can imagine, SO VERY GOOD for my back.

So here's what I'm wearing now:

It's a very good thing that I've become so comfortable with my not-so-inner Dork.

Sinking

Today I'm discouraged. Deeply, deeply discouraged. As much as I try to focus on the positives of my career, as much as I try to focus on the great kids and the joy of those wonderful discussions and discoveries and moments in teaching that make my day, as much as I try to listen to the messages I get from former students saying I made a difference in their lives: today I just want to quit.

I just want to be done. Walk away, leave behind all the crap, all the heartache, all the apathy. I just want to leave behind the parents who don't understand the importance of their children's educations and who think that teachers are the Enemy rather than their allies. I just want to leave behind the political red tape and bullshit. I just want to leave behind the pervasive attitude that somehow my education and professionalism and experience mean nothing, just like that of all my many, many, many dedicated and amazing colleagues. I even want to walk away from all the students, former and current, who Need so much from me, above and beyond the parameters of academic education.

I definitely want to walk away from the pile of papers to grade and the overwhelming list of things I have to do, which grows every day.

I feel drained. It's as though I've been plugged in, but in reverse, so all the energy is being drained away from me rather than into me. I'm tired. Deeply bone-tired. I could barely move this weekend to do the bare minimum of what the weekend required, much less do much of anything productive or useful. And of course that means I have even more to do this week because I've procrastinated.

I just want to crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours, then get up and read or work on my cross stitch project or actually exercise for once or do one of the many other things that are infinitely more attractive to me than what I actually have to do. Preferably in the company of MTL.

But I can't. I have to finish grading all these papers and quizzes and tests, and make tests, and prepare for the onslaught of project presentations, and finish grades, and somewhere in there I should probably work on cleaning a house that became absolutely trashed over Halloween weekend.

I feel like crying.

If Calgon Won't, I Will

For years and decades and ages and holy crap this stuff is ooooooold good old Calgon has been telling us to tell it to "take me away."

For about as long as I can remember, I've wondered what the heck Calgon IS. I never owned any Calgon products. In my mind, that brand name sounds medicinal in a vaguely hemorrhoidal old people sort of way. I wasn't sure what it was, and I really wasn't sure I wanted it to take me anywhere.

Recently I spotted an actual Calgon product in someone's bathroom. Lo and behold, it was very feminine, flowery scented body lotion. In a pink tube. Ah ha! I thought. If they make that sort of product, then the brand must be trying to take its consumers Away From Here, as in Reality and Daily Life.

Turns out I was right. Well, I assume. The tropical theme certain indicates that sort of thing. Though that wouldn't be very Away for people who live in, oh, say, Jamaica or coastal Florida or that sort of place. Perhaps they should be able to link to a site that shows mountains or scenic deserts or something? Whatever. Wherever you are, apparently Calgon takes you Away From There.

Why the heck didn't I google that word ages ago? (And why the heck did they pick such an ugly brand name? Or change it for these here Modern Times? Helloooooooo!)

Anywho, all this to say I could use some Calgon spa products right about now, because Daily Life, it is worth leaving for a while. Too much stress, too much student angst, too much political and economic strain. Too much, in general.

I'm not entirely sure a tube of body lotion will cut it, however. So I'm planning a Getaway. Oh yes. In a few weeks I am Getting Away for realsies, at least for a couple of days. The details aren't all in place yet, but it's being planned. No phones. No computers. No kids. No work. Nothing other than utter relaxation Elsewhere.

And I'm not going to tell you where I'm going, either. Even though I love you all. So there.

Now to get through the next two-and-a-half weeks....

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.

Wellness and War

I've been doing well. Quite well, considering the hellishness of last week and the sinus infection that decided to take up residence a couple of days ago. But work has gone well, I've been remarkably social, and my students have been commenting.

I think it's a bit of a shock to their system to see me positively cheerful in class.

Yesterday I treated myself to a haircut (it's been five months, folks!) and a mani-pedi in honor of my upcoming Weekend of Fun. It had been a bit of a crazy day, what with oversleeping my alarm and wireless issues at work and so on. It was luxurious to relax for a couple of hours and just take care of myself. It's something I don't do all that often.

So why haven't I been sleeping?

Night after night I lie in the bed, tired but incapable of falling asleep. Night after night I've been forunate if I get five hours of sleep. Even more rare is a night of sleep without waking several times throughout the night. Even on my snow day on Wednesday, I woke throughout the night worried whether the automated phone caller would call the right number (it didn't) and checking online for when my district would announce it (at the last minute, hours after everyone else). Even once I knew, I only slept an hour past the time I would normally wake for work.

I've been taking some Tylenol PM at night the last few days because of this annoying sinus infection, and that has helped. A little. Last night I forgot to do so. I fell asleep, finally, sometime around 11 or so. And woke sometime around 1:45 AM.

No matter what I did (and I pulled out all my tricks), I could not fall asleep for over two hours. My shoulders and arms and neck burned with tension. My mind raced. And finally, as I buried my face in my pillow, I burst into tears.

I've been doing quite well. But underneath, there's still a churning mass of grief and fear and sorrow and anger over multiple stressors in my life: relationships (romantic and otherwise), finances, divorce, my children, my job, my future. Last night, that mass won the battle.

Somehow I have to win the war.

"It'll Stick to Your Bones": {W}rite of Passage Challenge #2

Okay, so this week's challenge over on {W}rite of Passage is to describe my elementary school lunch using my senses. Thing is, I was (mostly) homeschooled for elementary and my lunches weren't terribly memorable, whereas the meals at boarding school during my middle and high school years have stuck with me (perhaps literally when it comes to some of those meals) ever since. So I'm going to break the rules kinda-sorta and describe a meal in the dining hall at the glorious and now defunct International Christian Academy in Ivory Coast, West Africa. And because I'm a total rebel crazy like that, I'm going to describe my most loathed breakfast rather than lunch. Isn't it fabulous how the nasty memories stay with us the most strongly?

"It'll Stick to Your Bones"

7:00 AM and we were promptly lined up outside the doors, shivering a bit in the chilly 65 degree morning. The elementary kids got to go first, as usual, so I stood silent with the other bleary teens, resentful that we were forced to get out of bed and come to breakfast when it was the worst meal of the day. A few more months and we'd be in the last trimester of our senior year--then we'd be allowed to sleep in and skip breakfast if we wanted!

Finally it was my turn to shuffle through the creaking doors and sidle up to the long tables. It was Monday: oatmeal day. I groaned in my mind. Huge vats sat steaming faintly, hapless students whose turn it was to serve breakfast wielding enormous ladles in repetitious movement. Dip, lift, glop. Dip, lift, glop. I stared glumly at the array of blue plastic bowls already lying in wait. Which one contained the least? I hesitated, then snatched a bowl before Lauren could shove me ahead. I didn't need a tray for my solitary bowl and spoon--the only thing worse than the food was the watery reconstituted milk, lumps of undissolved powder still floating in the greyish scum on top. I wouldn't be taking any. Lauren, of course, loaded her tray with four small plastic cups of the stuff. I shuddered.

Bowl and spoon in hand, I wandered over to our usual table, where other girls from our dorm were already sitting and doctoring their lukewarm cereal. I plunked my bowl down on the table, then sat.

"I just love this stuff," one of the other girls muttered. She lifted her bowl and turned it upside down, demonstrating for the umpteenth time that the glutinous grey mass at the bottom barely quivered, much less succumbed to gravity.  We chuckled wearily. It was an old joke. I quickly reached for the sugar container. I upended the jar and watched as the crystalline stream poured into the scant ladleful of oatmeal at the bottom of the bowl. Once the quantity of sugar nearly matched that of the cereal, I stirred the two vigorously until the contents of the bowl took on a semi-transparency.

I sighed, hesitated, held my breath, and shoveled the syrupy mess into my mouth as quickly as possible. The quasi-dissolved sugar allowed the bland glue of the oatmeal to slide over my tongue rather than cling to my tastebuds, but I still had to force each spoonful down my reluctant throat. One, two, three, four....Done!

I sighed again, in relief this time, and pushed the bowl away. The sickly-sweet taste of my sugar overload would stay with me for a few hours, but that was better than the alternatives. One more Monday breakfast over; one less bowl of oatpaste to consume.

Sometimes Honesty is Not the Best Policy

So here I was, wondering what post I could write today that wouldn't be all depressing and mopey and all caught up in the drama of this stupid frickin' month, and lo! the lovely and marvelous Fraught Mummy of Brits in Bosnia posted a highly amusing bit about the difference between what you say and what you mean. I was inspired. So here goes my own "Lost in Translation" piece de resistance:

To my children as they crawl into my bed ten minutes before the alarm goes off: Good morning, babies. I have to get up soon, okay? = You couldn't have waited ten more minutes? I mean, I love your cuddles and all, but I could really have used that addition to what little sleep I get these days. Ack! Get your cold little feet out of my lady bits!

To the secretaries: Good morning! = Crap, another morning. And even though I got a little more sleep last night because I popped some Nyquil tablets, I still feel like something the cat dragged in and every time I talk for more than three minutes I start coughing and my head starts aching because apparently some Throat Troll decided to drag its nasty little claws all over my throat last week and leave me in this condition for what looks like the entire next month. I like you ladies, but I really would rather be looking at the undersides of my eyelids right now.

To the student who just shaved his head: Wow! You shaved your head. = You look like a misshaped cueball. I hope you did that for charitable reasons.

To the student eating some yoghurt: What are you eating? = You better have brought something for me to stuff into my mouth too, girl. 

To the student who always asks when her grades will be turned in: They will make it onto the marking period. = Seriously, stop asking me every other second. I know you have OCD and anxiety issues, but you're making my anxiety shoot through the roof. I have all but two of your grades in at this point and girl, I do have a life and girl, I do have my own share of stress and if you keep looking at me with that half-crazed thisclosetoapanicattack look on your face I will simply throw. them. away. THEN you'll have something to panic about.

To the same student: I'll tell you about the homework when I tell everyone else. = Holy crap. Seriously, it's not enough that you have to panic about your grades (which at least has some little measure of justification), you also have to come in every morning and ask about the homework ahead of time so you can get ahead even more and then screw me up because I get confused and tell you the wrong information? Which then further aggravates your anxiety and gives me a massive load of guilt? Also, we'll actually be doing something in class today so it's kind of pointless to go over this with you when you might as well just wait until I go over it with everyone. Again, I know you have OCD and anxiety issues, and I really want to like you and admire your work ethic, but you are Driving. Me. Insane.

To my students: It would be wise to take notes. = Staring off into space will NOT be condusive to a good grade on, oh, say the QUIZ you have to take the next time I see you. Not to mention actually KNOWING anything in this life. Do you really think I'm talking just to hear myself? Do you really think I'm risking a Coughing Fit from Hell to fill your ears with meaningless noise? I'm trying to cram some INFORMATION into your ungrateful, atrophied, empty little brains here! Get a frickin' CLUE!

To my students: There are still quizzes out. = Shut your mouths, you noisy little buggers. Seriously, all I ask is that you actually remain silent until every quiz is turned in. It's a simple thing. Really. You want to see what happens if you keep this up?

To my students, again: Remain SILENT. There are still quizzes out. = Holy crap! Are you frickin' KIDDING me with this? You see this pen? You see your papers? Do you want to see the points vanish?!?!? And then would you like to see where your crispy remains will be stored when the Flaming Glare of Death is turned upon your whispering, giggling, noise-making, rude-as-all-get-out bodies?!?!?! Don't think I'm not capable! I'll show you capable!!!!!!!

To my students, finally: Have a great weekend! = Thank the little gods and graces that you're getting out of my sight, because I was thisclose to grabbing those stupid earbuds you wear around your necks like some sort of futuristic necktie and stuffing them down your throats so they will get tangled in your tonsils. Two days without seeing your rolling eyes and hearing your smart mouths MIGHT just make it possible for me to avoid Going Educational (TM) on your asses.

Maybe it's a good thing I have a filter between my brain and my mouth. Although it's getting awfully clogged these days...

Meanderings

1. It isn't hard to love them, these miniature people with the wacky senses of humor and infectious giggles and puckered-lip smooches, but it is at times immensely difficult to like them. Especially at six o'clock in the morning when I'm trying to convince them that they should get dressed and maybe not whine and cry and throw their clothes across the room and twist away from me while I'm putting on their shirts/shorts/socks. Oh, and then God forbid I actually get them out the door without carrying them both simultaneously along with my laptop, purse, and lunch. I am, after all, a professional pack mule.

You should sleep in later, DramaBoy informed me as we drove the (thankfully much shorter) commute to daycare and work.

I'd like to, but I can't. My work starts early, I replied.

Well, then you should tell them they start too early and they need to start later, he said.

Sometimes I wonder how I ended up in a career where I am routinely up before dawn and starting my day just as most normal people are thinking about crawling out of bed and hopping in the shower. Not for me the leisurely breakfast with the newspaper over a steaming mug of coffee. I forgot to grab a new box of South Beach Cereal Bars this morning, so I had to go begging. My darling mentee S. had a snack pack of chocolate crackers in her cabinet, so at least I won't be taking my pills on an empty stomach. Yesterday that did not go well: between the lack of breakfast and my unfortunate habit of dehydrating myself during the workday, I had a bad reaction to my antibiotics and had to go home early.

Note to self: Drink More Water.

2. I've managed to get a few of my many stacks of papers graded this week, and hopefully more will be done this afternoon. I miss the days of teacher's aides: when the state changed the rules about monitoring TAs and making sure they were actually working, the district discontinued the program. I worked my TAs hard. In fact, I had one student who referred to himself as my "TB"--he said he wasn't the Teacher's Aide, he was the Teacher's B*tch.

So now there is no one to grade the objective quizzes and tests that pile up on my desk, no one to file my papers, no one to decorate my bulletin boards or make posters or tidy my cabinets. I laugh when people say that teachers have it easy, working a measly six- or seven-hour day. That's ignorance talking, so usually I forgive.

Unless they get insulting about it, in which case I have to wrestle with the rage. So far no one's gotten hurt. Much.

3. I still haven't unpacked and organized things at the house and apartment. I'm struggling with decisions, such as where to keep the majority of my clothing and shoes. I think the house is the logical choice, but this means I will have to plan ahead. I'm much more accustomed to waking in the morning and choosing my outfit based on how I feel. Is it a sophisticated sort of day, or am I feeling cute? Skirt or slacks? Jacket or cardigan? Blouse or top? And then there's the issue of accessories. Earrings, rings, necklaces, shoes. I'm an emotional dresser. I think I will have to provide myself with at least two more outfit options than I actually need in order to satisfy my sartorial soul.

4. At some point I need to go coat shopping. I have a snappy little charcoal grey coat from the Gap that will do for daily going-to-work during the winter, but I am lacking a true winter coat for the outdoors. Since DramaBoy is already stating his desire for winter to arrive so he can play in the snow...

You'll get tired of the snow after a little while, I said.

No, I won't! I will love the snow forever and ever! he replied.

...and it looks like I might actually get involved in outdoor activities more often these days, perhaps I should have outerwear that will prevent hypothermia. I may need to invest in a good pair or two of long underwear, not to mention heavy socks and real gloves. Oh, and perhaps a pair of boots that don't have a fancy heel.

Last winter I barely stepped foot outside other than travelling to and from my car. I'm sure that didn't help my depression any. This year I just might breathe some fresh air and have a snowball fight or two. I've heard a rumor that Michigan actually has sun in winter. That vitamin D could do me a world of good.

5. A student thanked me this morning for making him write that horrendous ten-page paper last year that is the annual bane of my sophomores' existence.

I told you so, I said, always the gracious victor.

My sophomores this year have already heard about it. The paper is a good seven or eight months away and they're already groaning.

I love having a reputation as a tough teacher. I don't want to be the teacher students choose because they'll be able to skate through my classes. I want to be the teacher they remember years later, the one they just might send an e-mail or card to, or drop by on a visit, so that they can tell me that as much as they resented the work I made them do, they are grateful for it now.

I do have students who return, however, who sign up for classes on the chance they'll get me again, who visit my classroom and tell me how much they miss having me. It feeds my soul to know I have an impact, that I make a difference. I could not be happy in a career where I felt like I was just a cog in a machine, where if I disappeared no one would know the difference and my position would be filled as if I had never been there. Knowing that at least some of my students see me as a significant person in their lives makes the stress of this job worthwhile.

It even makes getting out of bed at 5:30 in the morning bearable. With a cup of coffee, of course.

6. I took the RHETI Enneagram test yesterday on the recommendation of my dear friend Heidi. I've always been a fan of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, a tried-and-true personality assessment I've loved for years. (I'm an XNFJ, for those of you in the know--a combination of INFJ and ENFJ depending on my context.) The Enneagram goes hand-in-hand with the MBTI, really, even asking for one's MBTI type on the RHETI test. It turns out I'm a Type 4, the Individualist, with a secondary emphasis of Type 2, the Helper. Reading the Type 4 description was...eerie. It was as if someone crawled into my head and wrote me down. The Type 2 description is a little more secondary, but still true.

Something written on the Enneagram Institute website caught my attention, because it is true of both my Type 4 and Type 2 aspects, and it says a great deal about why I do what I do:

Perhaps the biggest obstacle facing Twos, Threes, and Fours in their inner work is having to face their underlying Center fear of worthlessness. Beneath the surface, all three types fear that they are without value in themselves, and so they must be or do something extraordinary in order to win love and acceptance from others.

I cannot express how true this has been for me during my life. Even now, when I am stronger and more self-confidant than I have been in...well, ever! I still struggle to believe that people would love me simply because I am Me, rather than because I am or do something that stands out, that grabs attention, that has a Wow! factor.

Last night Joe told me that he wants to know me just because I am who I am, not because of what I do or can do for him. I want to believe this, but it's difficult. I so often feel like I am insufficient in myself, that I need to do and be More. I'm still learning to love myself, to be content with who I am in the Now.

Where I'm blessed is the many wonderful people in my life who are patient enough to keep telling me this, who are happy to just spend time with me. I was reminded again this morning, when I read a lovely comment from GingerB, a fellow blogger whom I have never met, yet who sent a message of love across the blogosphere.

I love you too, Ginger. I love you all, and I'm so thankful for you all.

I better end my ramblings before I get all mushy and verklempt.

Happy Friday, you wonderful people!

If Blogs Were Weather Patterns, This One Would Have the Meteorologists Stumped. Because They're Always Spot On in the Normal Course of Things.

Okay, so yeah, here it's Tuesday and I haven't been on here for realsies in ages and you're probably wondering, Hey, doesn't she love us anymore?  And the answer is, Yes, yes I do, but life is crazy and busy and awful and wonderful and up and down and sideways all at once and sometimes I think I might just need to pull over for a while and hyperventilate in private.

Because I'm insane complicated that way.

School is going well, other than having to squish the occasional overly-vociferous boy-child and threaten them with a dark, dusty sojourn in the Pottery Jar of Ashy Anguish.

"Ashes of Obnoxious Teenagers"

It always seems to be the boy-children. With the very occasional exception (none so far this year), I spend more time exhorting the female students to speak up than I do commanding them to pipe down.

I move up to the apartment/house on Saturday and have gotten absolutely nothing packed or ready yet. I have a vision of flinging everything down from the third-story window into the waiting arms of various friends and family so they can stuff it all in cars and haul it north. I'm terribly afraid it may come true.

I had a fabulous time over the weekend. My nails are now purple. I was only able to read 40 pages of the book I took, which says something about the amount of time I spent talking and laughing and goofing off instead.

I have graded a grand total of NONE of the papers piling up on my desk. That's a task for this afternoon, since I'll be stuck here until the Sneak Peek (a.k.a. parents-come-meet-teachers-and-check-things-out) tonight. Fortunately a wonderful and much-missed retired teacher is feeding a number of us at her house beforehand.

A former student brought me dark-chocolate-and-raspberry Godiva chocolate bars today. I may have to write her into my will.

I am surviving on practically no sleep, a mug of coffee, a breakfast bar, and a Godiva chocolate bar. The walls are wiggling a little.

And now perhaps I should return to work, since there are some students here to teach. I don't know where they came from. Apparently the tables have given birth.

Remember, only silly teddy bears wear red bow ties.

It's Hard to Wind Down When I've Been Going Nonstop All Day, Okay? Geez!

I just checked my blog stats and nearly fell off the bed when I saw there were only two hits today. I even double checked. Only TWO? What happened!

And then I realized it's 12:44 AY-EM and I really should just go to bed.

Me and my insecurities. I tell you. I mean, I was practically hyperventilating because it's been ages since I've been down in the teens, much less single digits, and here it's just because today started less than an hour ago.

And don't even get me STARTED on the number of blogs I "need" to catch up on reading, cuz I've been crazy busy today. Which is just silly, because those bloggers will survive if I'm a few days delayed in reading their posts, whether brilliant or mundane. Even though I know they sit for hours at their keyboards, tapping the keys anxiously in their desperate wait for a TeacherMommy comment to pop up. (HA!)

OH! And I still haven't replied to bushmanbill's Direct Message via Twitter! Ack! If you're reading this, hon, I'm doing mostly okay and so are the kids. More details later.

Maybe it will be good for me to get away for a few days, somewhere I can't hover by my computer. I think I may be on the verge of running silicone through my veins rather than blood.

Wish me luck (or pray) on our trip tomorrow. It's normally a six-hour drive, but with two kidlets we'll be tacking on a few hours. Sigh.

Since I need to be up in five hours, I need to get OFF THE COMPUTER. Even if it is the first chance I've had to really be on here all day. Peace and sweet dreams!

Eight Reasons I Haven't Been Posting And This Is The Post You're Getting

1. Sleeping in on my day off (last Friday)

2. Spending the rest of my day off (1) having lunch with my dear friend M., (2) frantically looking for my missing cell phone that is STILL MISSING, and (3) finally catching up on some bill-paying (I know, I know--not much of a Day Off Activity. What can I say? At least it left me feeling like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders!)

3. Two Small Boys. Enough said.

4. Going to the Detroit Yacht Club (doesn't that make me sound so hoity-toity? ;D) to grill and go out on my father-in-law's sailboat on Memorial Day

5. Two Small Boys AND self getting/being sick with a nasty cold

6. Spending whatever time I WAS on the computer playing World of Warcraft instead of blogging

7. Being completely intimidated when I looked at my Dashboard and realized that everyone else had, in fact, been blogging and I now have three zillion and one blog posts to read

8. Having way too much work to do and catch up on, with only two weeks remaining to complete it all--why hello, Professor Panic, when did you show up?

There you go. Hopefully I'll be back at some point soon.

In the meantime, here are some Deep Questions to ponder (for more, check out Crazy Thoughts):

• How far east can you go before you're heading west?
• Why is it that everyone driving faster than you is considered an idiot and everyone driving slower than you is a moron?
• If a kid refuses to sleep during nap time, are they guilty of resisting a rest?
• When does it stop being partly cloudy and start being partly sunny?
• If ghosts can walk through walls and glide down stairs, why don't they fall through the floor?
• What do you do when you see an endangered animal that is eating an endangered plant?
• How can something be "new" and "improved"? If it's new, what was it improving on?
• If, in a baseball game, the batter hits a ball splitting it right down the center with half the ball flying out of the park and the other half being caught, what is the final ruling?

Discuss.

I Here a Tale Unfold, Whose Lightest Word Would Harrow Up Thy Soul*

I'm feeling a little harrowed. Just a little, mind you, but there it is. I'm feeling a bit whiny as a result, and I have chosen to subject you to read said whine. Because there's only so much satisfaction one can glean from posting over on Secret Spineless Whine.

So here are some recent harrowing events:

• DramaBoy tested positive for strep (again and still) on Monday and had to be put on a higher level antibiotic, as the blessed amoxicillin had apparently done an insufficient job of killing off this particular strain.
• The Widget had explosions from both ends for a week due to gastroenteritis. He has recovered, although he now has farts so stinky we keep checking his diaper to see if he has filled it. Even he's confused.
• ComputerDaddy apparently caught the same bug this week and has been prostrate since Monday evening. He has the added joy of fever and cramps on top of streaming forth at both ends.
• Last night, in a feat of heroic mommyhood, I placed my cupped hands beneath DramaBoy's mouth (for lack of a handy receptacle needed rightnow) and caught the vomit that spewed forth at the onset of what may be his own battle with the Creeping Crud.
• My throat is sore. If this turns out to be strep rather than allergies, I will be Very Put Out. I simply do not have the time to be sick, thank you very much (or the sick days, for that matter).
• I have gotten very little sleep the last few days and keep practically falling asleep when I'm driving. I'm not exaggerating--I have the whole eyes fluttering shut, drifting into a weird almost-dreaming state, having to slap myself in the face sort of experience going on. It's bad enough when it's just me in the car: it's terrifying when the boys are in the back seat.
• This morning as I exited the front office and headed down the hall towards my classroom, coffee clenched hopefully in my hand, I heard a commotion from the balcony overhead and saw a backpack come flying over the side, headed directly for me. If I had not stopped, it would have slammed me in the head. The perpetrator has been found by administration and, I assume, is being flogged and keelhauled. Also perhaps suspended.
• I have very little time this afternoon between my chiropractor appointment (ah! massage therapy! the light in my day!) to grab the kids and take them back to the house in Detroit where I will deposit them with my brother, then head all the way back up to the marriage counselor. And there's construction (as usual in the Detroit area come a hint of warmer weather) on the way home. Is it evil to sort of hope that ComputerDaddy is sick enough to cancel tonight? Probably.
• My students actually need to be taught today, because they're done reading their play. Dammit. So I must end now.

I should probably be trying to focus on Grace in Small Things, but all that comes into my head is a handful of warm, soupy vomit and a flying backpack.

Enjoy that meal you were thinking about eating.

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*Bonus points and maybe a little something special if you can identify the original quote and its source!

Call Me Betsy Ross and I'll Stitch Your Lips Shut

Nope, I haven't reneged on my promise to start blogging again! The days are passing swiftly and are full of chaos at the moment, since DramaBoy and The Widget are sick (still) and Stuff keeps getting in the way of what I'd rather be doing--blogging, reading on my Kindle 2 (which is my new inorganic best friend), and doing cross stitch.

Yeah, you read me right. My students and coworkers were ridiculing me for being such an Old Lady by sitting peacefully as I passed needle and floss in and out the perforated cloth*. Oh, my grandma did that! exclaimed one student. How old ARE you? queried another impertinent youth. Glares and meaningful glances at the pottery jar labeled "Ashes of Obnoxious Teenagers" that sits on my filing cabinet did nothing to abate the snickering.

Until they saw what initially appeared to be random stitches in various colors transforming into a charming and vivid piece of art. I'm not linking the image because it's a gift for a loved one who sometimes reads this blog--maybe I'll do so once it's been framed and gifted. The snickers turned to exclaimations of delight, the disdain into appreciation. They also agreed that I had been far less snarky and cranky on the occasions I had pulled out my craft. (This is always to the good, in their opinion. They love me dearly, of course, but it's rather like adoring a snarly and imperious great cat who might just take a swipe with a verbal paw if you rub her fur the wrong way.)

One senior boy in my Creative Writing class even started asking if I would make something for him. Gradually his requests turned into wondering if perhaps this was something he could do himself. My comment that I have an uncle who has done cross stitch wasn't even needed--this is a boy secure in his identity and masculinity, so much so that his buddies didn't even leap on this prime opportunity for ridicule (which is unfair, because hey, they'd been the ringleaders in ridiculing me just days before!) So he spent some time on Joann.com checking out the cross stitching kits and asking my advice on levels of difficulty. I can just picture him in college, sitting contentedly on his dorm bed after a long day of classes and football practice and studying, watching TV while he stitches away at a pattern of wolves or footballs or rubber duckies!

So there's my good deed in the name of gender egalitarianism.

Oh, and humor? In short supply at the moment. I used it up tickling and teasing my young sons into fits of shrieking laughter last night. And it's too early in the morning. The coffee is still working its way through my bloodstream. Sorry, Lauren dear, if this didn't meet your high standards. Sort of along the lines of wimpy sunlight struggling to get over the horizon because Daylight Savings Time makes everyone Too Damn Tired.

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*Yeah, yeah, I know. What am I doing cross stitching at school/work? Procrastinating, for one. Passing time while observing students doing group work in Lit 10 and 11 and writing stuff in Creative Writing, for another. Keeping my hands busy so that I didn't inadvertently strangle a teen or two, for sure. Don't judge me!