Au Revoir, Grandpere

To the seeing again...

That's the literal translation of the French farewell, and it is what I say to my grandfather. He passed away quietly, peacefully on Saturday evening, traveling from this world to the next between one breath and....

The day before, my father had purchased some summer sausage and cheddar cheese, two of my grandfather's favorite foods, long since forbidden due to dietary restrictions. But what of a diet so near the end? He had barely been able to swallow anything for days due to the edema. On Friday, he ate sausage and cheese for three meals, delighting in the rich tastes he loved. He woke Saturday and had his bowl of Cream of Wheat. After changing clothing, his last traces of energy drained away and he closed his eyes and began slipping away.

I got the call from my father during breakfast. MTL came home early from work and he drove me up to Saginaw, where we joined other family members gathering to say their au revoirs. We spent the day talking and laughing over memories, watching my alma mater Michigan State University trounce their rival University of Michigan for the fourth year in a row, and comforting one another. We held vigil in a sense, gathered together in mutual love for the once-hearty, now-frail man lying under blankets in his armchair, not quite in a coma but not fully with us either. We touched him, spoke to him, assured him of our love.

Finally, knowing he could linger for another hour or a couple more days, MTL and I took our leave. I kissed my grandfather one more time, told him that I loved him, and we drove away. As we left, one of my aunts was putting on some of his favorite music.

Fifteen minutes later my father called to tell me that Grandpa had passed.

When my time comes, I want a similar passing: peaceful, quiet, surrounded by the love and laughter of those I love most. I want my ashes scattered in a beautiful place where they may join the earth from which I was formed. And I'll see my grandfather again, along with my aunt and others who have gone before.

Au revoir, Grandpere. Je t'aime.

Until we meet again.

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.

If I Had A Fireplace, This Would Be A Fireside Chat. Does An XBox 360 Count?

I'm sitting on the couch while Many Small Children run about eating toast with various toppings, which makes for interesting food art on their faces, waiting for The Blessed Elixir (otherwise known as coffee) to brew so that my mind can properly prepare for the day ahead. The MSC made it up and downstairs before I dragged myself from my warm, if solitary, bed and into the shower, so the TV shows evidence of The Padawan's adventures with Guitar Hero, and now he's moved on to computer games. When not smearing themselves with jelly, Nutella, and crumbs; DramaBoy, The Widget, and KlutzGirl are clustering around him to watch.

Ahhhh, Saturday mornings with The Dork Squad.

MTL is at work and has been for hours, as is usual for a Saturday morning, so I'm essentially on my own with the kidlets until later today. DMB is in bed still, as his biorhythms are those of the college kid he still is. He won't emerge for hours.

Today looms in a friendly way. Besides the usual loads of laundry, I also plan to take KlutzGirl on a quest to find more jeans at Sally's Boutique*, and all three younger kids are slated to get haircuts. Carnival Cuts at the mall should make that simple. I learned my lesson about trying to cut a child's hair long ago (it's a good thing DramaBoy was too young to care). I've tried to persuade The Padawan that the drapes covering his eyes should also get trimmed, but to no avail.

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*a.k.a. Salvation Army. The one down here is pretty awesome, especially for kids' clothes. Yay for savings and helping the less fortunate all at once!
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Later, when MTL gets home, we're having our family Christmas preparation day. The tree will go up, the decorations will--well, they'll decorate, and I fully intend to have Christmas music playing the entire time. It's two weeks until Christmas: I'm allowed. Cocoa will be made, and we have ambitious plans for a luscious dinner of turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, and stuffing.

Because who said that sort of thing can only happen on holidays themselves?

Later The Padawan has a friend coming to stay the night. This makes me and MTL so very, very happy. He's a shy boy, and we were worried about him at a new school in a new district. We knew he had been making a few friends, but this makes it all very REAL. So when he asked if he could have a friend or two sleep over, we couldn't say yes fast enough.

Ahhh, coffee. I can feel my brain waking up already.

I know I haven't been here much lately. I've written a dozen posts in my head--always when I couldn't get to a computer, of course--and then when I do have my computer I'm blank. So much has been happening lately. Part of my problem is that there is so much I can't put out here, where it's public, because I can't do that to the people involved. Part of my problem is that, unlike a couple of years ago when I first got into this blog, I have outlets elsewhere. There have been times when I've felt that pressure building up that used to lead to a blog post, and instead it gets released in conversation with MTL or DraftQueen or Amy or Heidi or one of my several other beloved friends.

So--here are the Cliff Notes on what's been going on :

• I'm back in therapy for old, old stuff: it's going well, but it's hard work, and I'm finding it almost impossible to be around certain people until I work out things in my head. My therapist says it's wisest right now to be silent, until I know what words can and should be said--if at all--to those people.
• I love my students this year--well, except for some of the lazier seniors, but I'm working on kicking their asses into gear. My two sophomore classes are absolutely my favorite of all time, and I've had some amazing classes before. I feel like I'm finally succeeding in blending the personal with the academic, and I love that part of my job.
• I hate politics. I especially hate the politics that affect my job, and boy, do they affect my job right now. And that's all I even want to say, because the slightest THOUGHT of it makes my blood pressure rise.
• Things are....not good with The Dark One. It's not just me, or even mainly me, although she has to a certain extent decided to cast me in the role of Evil Stepmother. I suppose that makes me part of the matched set of Evil Mother, Evil Father, and Evil Stepfather, among others. I can't really talk about what's going on here, to protect all involved, but let's just say that her many deep issues are now being made everyone's issues. Fun Times. You won't be hearing about her much on this blog for a very long time.
• The Widget is going to be seeing a child therapist in order to deal with some of his emotional and attachment issues. It's a massive blog post of its own, that, and maybe I'll write it someday. He's not in crisis, but MTL and I have been concerned for some time about certain things, and The Ex agreed, and we decided that it would be better to deal with it now than later. Hopefully we'll come out of it with some better tools for helping him ourselves, and hopefully he'll also have some tools for self-expression.

So...stress.

Despite all that...life with MTL is so full and deep and rich with love and laughter. I find myself amazed, on a very frequent basis, that I am so incredibly blessed. And because it is, I'm finding myself less involved in my virtual life.

But I still love this blog and, of course, you. So that's why I'm sitting here on this Saturday morning in the hours before the day becomes crazy, having a bit of a chat.

I've missed you guys.

So. What's going on with you?

Dear So and So: An Emotional Rant (Or Four)

Pants With Names posts every now and then with her very amusing versions of her friend Kat's postcard posts. You know, the "Dear So and So" type of thing. Today, I think I need to do it too. Because I am in a MOOD. One that even Ghirardelli dark chocolate with raspberry filling cannot fix.

I KNOW.

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Dear Electronic Grading System,

WTF do you mean, it's Progress Report time??? I'm not ready! I'm not prepared! I'm still scrambling to get everything done AND figure out how to balance Work and Home Life right now, and it's still in the early stages. Plus I had to take that day off to stay home with The Widget, and it's taking me twice as long to catch up as it would have to just be here.

Your little asterisks of Grades Have Not Been Entered mock me!

Yours in frantic desperation,
Ms. Buried-Up-To-My-Neck-In-Paperwork TeacherMommy

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Dear Current Students,

No, M&Ms are not suitable replacements for Godiva. Also, it's Cherry COKE. Cherry Pepsi is an abomination.

Grumpily,
Your Favorite English Teacher

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Dear You Know Who,

I know. It's AMAZING that moving to that town didn't fix all your problems. Such a shock! I never would have guessed.

I really need to work on my bitterness.

Trying To Forgive,
One of the People You Left Behind

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Dear Media, World, and People I Love,

I know there are problems with the system. I'm not saying it can't improve. And I love that there are options for people, like private schools and charters and homeschooling. But here's the reality check: they're not all perfect either. Or even always better. And every time you lump all of us educators together under the category of "lazy" or "useless" or "outdated" or "unnecessary", you injure a group of people who, in a far greater majority than you give them credit for, have chosen a career that is full of stress and challenge and (increasingly) very little thanks--and do a damn good job.

You want to measure my efficacy? You want some stats? Today alone I actively taught five classes (three different courses), graded eight sets of quizzes, rewrote two quizzes, prepped questions and activities for a novel, answered over twenty emails, entered grades into the grading system, wrote a wiki rubric for the district benchmark "test", checked in three classes' worth of vocabulary assignments, and helped several individual students who had issues or questions outside of class.

That was in five hours. And I'm still behind.

That doesn't even include the unmeasurable aspects: getting students excited about literature, making them laugh, working with other teachers to develop ideas and activities and curriculum. How are you going to gather statistics on the number of students I impact in the ways that don't show up on standardized tests?

And I'm not even the best or hardest working teacher I know, not by a long shot. AND THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.

And here's the other thing: we take everyone. That's EVERYONE. Regardless of ethnicity or religion or gender or financial status or, especially, disability. We don't get to pick and choose like almost every private and charter school does. We take everyone, and we care about them, and we do our damnedest under increasingly difficult circumstances.

And then we get shit on from every direction. Including our own administration, our politicians, the media, and (God help me) even our own friends and family.

I told my students' parents on Sneak Peek night that I teach because I love doing it and I love working with these kids. It's true. But for the first time in my entire career, even when I was so close to burn-out that I could taste it (twice), I realized this week that if I miraculously won the lottery with that ticket I never buy, I wouldn't keep teaching.

Stop saying "Oh, but I didn't mean YOU." Yes, you did. Because I'm in this along with all the others.

It's been a hard week.

Sincerely,
Your Emotionally Raw TeacherMommy

Draco De Ira

One of the hardest lessons I've had to learn over the last not-quite two years is how to forgive and what forgiveness really means. I've learned, among other things, that forgiveness is more about healing oneself and less about healing others. I've learned that apologies often follow forgiveness rather than the other way around. And I've learned that forgiveness needs regular application, since anger and resentment tend to ooze back into one's soul over time.

Forgiveness is rather like Preparation H, when you think about it. Or Tums.

I learned that first major lesson about forgiveness nearly a year and a half ago, on a day when I planted myself next to a small lake and begged God to please make two particular people Very Sorry for all the hurt they had caused me. The geese stared at me and honked moodily. Then I sat there and begged God to forgive me for the hurt I had caused those two people. This seemed a bit better, but I wasn't quite there.

So I sat, surrounded by goose shit, which seemed rather apropos for my mood, and read a bit from a book, perhaps one by Anne Lamott, who also struggles with anger and forgiving and therefore gets through to me with some deft application of verbal hammering on my brain. I don't remember any longer exactly who the author was: at any rate, the words were about forgiveness and about how we make huge errors in thinking that (1) withholding forgiveness does any damage to anyone other than ourselves, (2) apologies are requisite precursors to forgiveness, and (3) we are better than the people we have to forgive. And then the author drove home that when we refuse to forgive someone, we're as much as yelling to the Universe that we are better than God, who forgives us for much more than we have to forgive.

That sounds like Lamott, so it probably was.

I remember sighing, because the idea of forgiving these two people, who had no interest or willingness to recognize any need to apologize, seemed like a greater task than I was capable, especially in a time of such great stress and pain. Nevertheless, I bowed my head, and this time when I prayed, I asked that I be granted the strength to forgive. Then I said out loud (much to the surprise of the geese) that I forgave those two people, and I named them. Then I said it again, just to be sure, and found the words easier to say the second time.

Imagine my surprise when I felt a tremendous weight lift off my heart.

I've had to forgive those two people again since then, for the same original pain and (in the case of one of them) additional pain caused over time.

Regular application, especially when the acid burning of anger starts up again.

Since that day by the lake, both of those people have apologized to me for the pain they caused. It's a cycle, really, the forgiveness and apology and forgiveness again, and with time the pain truly does ease.

Other times...you're blindsided.

This last weekend I found myself enraged, furious, reacting far more strongly to a frustrating moment with The Widget than the incident truly deserved. I stood in the walk-in closet searching for clean and comfy clothes, and I asked myself what was really going on.

And I realized that my anger was at other people entirely, over a situation over which I have no control, where I feel guilty for even being angry at all, where the anger comes from years of hurt and pain and loss that I have shoved deep down over and over and over again because I do not feel justified in my anger.

But the anger is there. And because I have never embraced that anger, recognized it, and forgiven both myself and those other people for these decades of pain and grief, I have never moved on. I have, in fact, allowed that pain to poison other relationships and prevent me from opening myself fully to love.

MTL found me in tears and I poured out my grief and anger. Just saying it, just letting it out of my head, was a step. Writing this post, which has taken me two days, is another.

The next step is bigger. More painful. It holds more delving into truth, a stripping away of shadows and shame.

It's a choice I have to make.

I am stalled in the moment. The skies hold no answers. The window is drenched with autumn rain.

Dregs

I'm just too tired. Drained, really. It's not just the whole moving thing or school starting thing or occasional money thing or the fact that my car decided NOW NOW NOW when we have so many start-up costs to require ALL FOUR WHEEL BEARINGS AND THE ATTACHED TIRES to be replaced (though we're doing them in stages, for sanity's and wallets' sake).

Oh no. There has also been Angst and Drama of the sort that has me, MTL, and his ex running to our parents to sob out our apologies for everything we ever did to torment them back when we were teens.

Also, we're rather grateful that we somehow survived and weren't strangled in our sleep by enraged parents.

Not, mind you, because they weren't enraged. We're fairly sure they all were. Multiple times.

It's the not-strangling-us thing that has us grateful.

I can't really go into it all more than that. Not really. For privacy's sake. But I think you get my drift. Fill in the blank, peoples. Really, let your imaginations roam.

Chances are, if you have or have had teens, or were one of those particularly TEENISH teens yourself, your imaginations are getting somewhere around the mark.

I'll tell you this much, though. I chose this life. It may not always be remotely what I expected (MTL keeps shaking his head over my incurable optimism) (and then admits freely that it's one of the many reasons he loves me) but it is the life I chose. For better or worse. And even when there are these trials by fire, I keep choosing it. I wouldn't want another.

Hey. I always told you I'm crazy.

Woohoo!!!! Cue Happy Dances And Cooing Noises!

I am officially a TeacherAuntie!!!!! My nephew arrived very punctually and in an organized fashion this morning, on his due date. No artificial persuasion required! He even waited until an hour and a half after midnight to start the process--and until the day after his parents had gotten everything set and the house cleaned!

Very much like his father already, that one.

And in a few weeks they'll move to Canada, thus being, ironically enough, only three and a half hours away instead of fifteen.

So we can go SEE HIM.

*happy baby-induced sigh*

(Also: WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP POSTING BLOG POSTS? I HAVE NO TIME TO READ. NO TIME, I TELL YOU!!!!!!!!!)

(Argh.)

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.

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

While I'm Waiting

Some days are more frustrating than others. I've had a couple lately. Today I'm stuck inside waiting for a repairman who is supposed to appear sometime between the hours of nine ay-em and six pee-em. Oh yes, peoples. I was given a NINE HOUR time span in which I must roam the rooms of my (fortunately wonderful) new home and wait for someone to show up and replace a hose on the washer that was installed incorrectly a week ago. And since we're renting the appliance from some national appliance company, we don't dare make the repairs ourselves in case they then decide that we have voided the rental agreement/warranty/whatever. They're only showing up today instead of next Tuesday because I begged.

I just love those impersonal national companies that don't even have a clue where you're really located when you call them. Oh, you're in Detroit? the representative asks after pulling up your account, not even using your own phone number or address because it's kind of through the rental complex.

No; West Bloomfield, Michigan, you reply.

Oh. Well, I have a lot of S---------- Villas listed here, he says, apparently unable to figure anything out for himself. And then switches you over to Customer Service where, you hope, they train the representatives to think for themselves marginally more.

The new representative assures you that there is someone coming, but no, she can't pinpoint the time span any more than the NINE HOUR one already given.

You can always just let the leasing office know and give them permission to let us in if you need to leave, the new representative tells you in a cheerful voice.

Because you're so comfortable with letting people in while you're gone so they can do who knows what and then feed you some bullsh*t about nothing being wrong and that leak being part of the service, isn't that lovely? It's a new feature! when you call to complain that you still can't run the clothes washer without flooding the utility room.

No thank you. I guess I'm stuck here.

It's been over four hours now. And we all know perfectly well he/she/it will show up at 5:55 this evening, right?

Face it, I'm grumpy. I'm feeling a bit guilty about that, because really I shouldn't be. I have so much to be not grumpy about.

The move went well, thanks to the invaluable assistance of ten other people, including five former students, who helped us move everything on Saturday and Sunday. I've been working steadily since then to unpack and organize everything, and overall it's gone quite well. There are only a few more boxes and smaller pieces of furniture to move out of the garage and into place, and I'll wait for MTL's help this weekend for most of that.

I love our new home. It's roomy--oh so very roomy!!!--and comfortable and feels like home already. The next door neighbor is very friendly and sweet and turned out to be the mother of one of my students who graduated last year. She and I have already exchanged numbers and spent time chatting, and it's lovely to feel a friendship developing.

At the same time, however, other stressors keep raising their uncomfortable heads. MTL started a new job last week, and although he's happier there and earning a bit more money and closer to home, he's coming home exhausted because it's more physically demanding than the last one. We've been very tight financially this week due to moving costs. We have a growing list of things we need to purchase, some more urgently than others.

With my personality, not being able to finish setting up the house and the kids' rooms bothers me. The fact that I don't have picture hangers so that I can spend my copious hours stuck inside by putting photos and art on the walls bothers me. Having to wait until next week to get the kids registered in school bothers me.

And not having had Just Us time with MTL in weeks bothers me. I've become a bit spoiled, I know. A bright, shiny silver lining in having Exes is getting fairly regular time to ourselves without kidlets around. Summer alters the schedule, and the various events of the last month have further mucked up arrangements. We haven't had real time to ourselves since we went out to Saugatuck the week after the Fourth of July.

Here's my confession: as much as I really do care about The Dark One and The Padawan and KlutzGirl, I'm still adjusting to becoming the stepmom, much less monitoring five kids. And reality alert! Working with teens in the classroom is a very different thing to working with them in the home. Especially when there isn't a bell that lets you kick them out the door after an hour or so.

What makes me feel rather small and petty are the occasional feelings of jealousy I have. Jealousy at having to share MTL with so many others, jealousy that their mother shares something with him that I can't, jealousy that my boys as well as his children sometimes would rather be with their other parents rather than us (and yes, I know how paradoxical that is considering my need for Just Us time with MTL).

I know this is pretty normal and that I need to get used to it and develop a thicker skin and all that, but yesterday was just Hard. My back was hurting and my allergies were so bad I felt cotton-headed and dizzy. I had KlutzGirl, DramaBoy, and The Widget with me all day. They play together quite well, but their noise level and the occasional need to referee quarrels were wearing me down. MTL arrived home exhausted. And then a minor difference in opinion between me and MTL on the issue of late-night snacking topped it all off, and I fell apart, leading to a rare argument between us.

The reality is that blending families is hard. We have it a lot easier than many, I know: both of us are amicable with our exes, our children like each other and us, and we generally have very good communication. But no road runs smoothly, and there are and will be issues that have to be worked out. Sometimes they seem to be minor, but the solutions aren't necessarily simple.

For example: I don't give my kids sugary snacks (or really, much in the way of snacks at all) later in the evening. They both tend to get a little hyper on sugar, especially DramaBoy. MTL's children don't react the same way, and he's never worried about their snacking, especially since he doesn't usually have much junk food around. But then we come up against situations, like last night, where I gave The Widget a graham cracker, but KlutzGirl wanted something else, and MTL gave her a little packet of Fruit Snacks (you know, the gummy thingies.) What do we do in these situations? Suddenly change the way things have always been for his kids and tell them they can't have what they've been allowed to have before? Deny my boys what the other kids are having?

It also goes to deeper issues, of course--and I'm not telling you the whole story, as there are aspects that are better left between me and MTL. But overall it does come down to blending two families into one, and we each are bringing in somewhat differing practices and expectations and parenting approaches. Sometimes that means we offer each other alternatives that are better than what we've done before individually; sometimes we don't see eye to eye. Add in two strong-willed individuals who have become used to doing things their own way, and we end up having to battle our own selves to find a way to compromise.

Our overall goals and desires for our children are essentially the same. What isn't always identical is the path we take to get there, and that is what makes the road a bumpy one. There are some very strong, solid foundations, however, that make it worth the work. We want to raise strong, independent children. We love our children, biological and not. And we love each other, enough to talk through the anger and the hurt and reach for the understanding on the other side.

Just...some days are a little tougher than others.

I'm not really asking for solutions here (and definitely not asking you to take sides on the stupid snack issue), though if you have practical experience in blended families, I wouldn't mind hearing what has worked--and what hasn't. I just needed to get it out, vent, throw the words out into the universe before girding my loins to return to the task at hand.

I think I need to go find that book on Stepcoupling I've been reading. I think it's still buried in a box somewhere.

And I still have four hours of waiting on that repairman to find it.

Stress Fatigue

I have been tired and a little worn around the edges the last few days, despite all those lovely days of relaxation with My True Love. As I sat on the couch last night, wondering why I felt like I'd been running a marathon or at least a fast-paced walkathon (since a marathon would probably involve much more Death), I suddenly realized that while I have been rather layabout physically, I have been involved in a good bit of emotional exercise lately.

I can't really go into details here, for various reasons, but over the last few days I've had several encounters with beloved people that involved us disagreeing over Stuff. You know, the kinds of issues and points of view that often find people who otherwise get along quite well on opposite sides. The kinds of situations where we may decide we need to share our opinions, but the reality is that neither side will ever change the other person's mind. And because we do love each other, and none of us like conflict, especially with people we love, we're all very stressed and tired and sad that there's the conflict to begin with.

It doesn't help that none of these people are remotely nearby, location-wise, so these conversations have had to be conducted via phone and online chat, so we can't hug each other and feel the physical connection despite the disconnect otherwise.

This too will pass, but I rather wish I could crawl into a hug right now.

It's Nine O'Clock On A Friday

It's 9:11 on a Friday night, and I'm sitting in bed catching up on blogs before drifting off to sleep in a bit.

I know. MY LIFE, IT IS A PARTY.

Seriously, I'm pretty happy to be where I am. This week has felt twice as long as it actually was due to a jam-packed schedule. MTL's been raising his eyebrows every time I whip out my agenda. There isn't much white space left. My scribbles have scribbles. I'm exhausted.

The end of the year, work-wise, is always jam-packed. This one, more so than many. I had the normal tasks such as writing, administering, and grading exams; finalizing grades; packing up the room; changing my voice mail; cleaning out both virtual and physical mailboxes; filing all the crazy paperwork that materializes in June; and checking out for the summer.  Then there were the usual functions: graduation, the end-of-year staff picnic, the end-of-year English Department party.

It was the goodbyes that got to me this year. I didn't fully realize until a few weeks before the end of the year just how many seniors I had connected with over the last few years. At graduation, the staff members create a little honor guard as the students exit the arena. This year, I had students piling up waiting for their turn to high-five, fist-bump, and/or hug me.

I even told two of My Boys that just ONCE, just for that moment, I was their Boi.

Brandon may have fist-pumped the air. I know he was telling everyone in range that I'd finally said it.

I said goodbye and good luck to a lot of special kids this year. I know my Facebook Friend count went way up that day. And if I wanted to, I could skip buying groceries on weekends for the next couple of months and just live off graduation party food.

This job comes with those farewells every year. I've gotten more used to them. The harder ones are when coworkers, friends with whom I interact and collaborate daily and monthly and yearly, say goodbye too.

Three of my closest coworker friends were on the bottom of the district seniority list. They all were laid off on Tuesday. I don't think it's sunk in for me yet: next year they will not be there. I lost my mentee C., and losing him is losing a friend, a wonderful collaborator, and a little brother all at once.

Okay, writing that made it a little more real. THIS SUCKS.

Then on Wednesday I went to a small retirement party for the first real friend I ever made at my school. He was a father figure, the first one to really get to know me, the person who told other coworkers I was worth getting to know. Every time I saw him, he had a hug and a smile and an encouraging word to give.

Dammit. I'm getting teary now.

Since then? I've been diving into sorting and purging and packing all the crap that piled up in the house over six years, because I'll be moving at the end of July.

I'll write more about that later. It is now 9:33 and I'm ready for bed.

What's awesome? I get to sleep in. For REAL.

'Night, all!

To Whom It May Concern: Social Paradigm Shift Edition

Dear Should-Be-Creepy-Man-Who-Smokes-His-Pipe-Next-to-the-Apartment-Entrance,

There's something about you that says you should be creepy. Your subtly twisted and malformed face; your shifty eyes that never quite meet my gaze; the fact that you always seem to be hovering around the entrance to the apartment building when I get there in the afternoon. And yet...you're not. You open the door so I didn't have to fumble with my bags. You always nod a silent hello. Your pipe smoke is aromatic and comforting.

You seem nice.

I'll go with my intuition on this one. Smoke on, dude, smoke on.

The Half-time Occupant from B-1

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Dear Formerly-Jackass-Students-from-First-Hour,

I wasn't sure whether it was going to happen, and boy did it take it's sweet time. But that shift from OMG you are so frickin' annoying (me) and OMG she's such a bitch (you) to us suddenly joking around and you visiting my room during other hours...Yeah. You two are suddenly part of that group that stretches back over nearly a decade of teaching. You have become My Boys.

Congratulations. Now get out of my room and get back to class!

Ms. TeacherMommy-and-No-I-Will-Not-Be-Your-Boi!!!!

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Darling Friend-of-the-Heart and Sole Soul Sister,

When did we switch roles? How is it that I'm the one kicking your ass about relationship woes instead of you kicking mine?

I almost feel Grown Up. And I love you. Don't make me come over there and do it for real.

Your Forever Friend

Sister Mine

Twenty-nine years ago today, my life changed forever. I had been the Golden Child, the only little kidlet around in the entire extended family and missionary community out in Ivory Coast. As far as I was concerned, the universe revolved around me and Galileo could go suck it.

And then came long this adorable little baby with wispy blond hair and big blue eyes and a disturbing tendency to be very very very precocious and I was supposed to Love My Sister.

Yeah. Not so much.

I'm afraid I was a pretty awful Big Sister for a very long time. I tormented her. I knew all her buttons. I played them with all the skill of a Mortal Kombat button masher, and my results were just as aggravating (to her) as my MK skillz were to my male opponents Back in the Day.

(For the love of god, you aren't even TRYING to get the combos off! You're just MASHING BUTTONS and I'm trying to be SKILLED here, girl! Come on!)

(Meanwhile, I would kick their butts. Just sayin'.)

I'd rile her up until she would, out of pure frustration, bite me, and then I'd go running off to a parent with the proof of her crime. Oh, I was nasty. And when we would get in mutual trouble and be placed in the corner to sit until we apologized and said we loved each other? She'd crumble in a moment. I would sit there for pretty much Ever. I'm not sorry and I don't love her! I would exclaim.

Oh, I was a bitch.

Mind you, I was the only one allowed to treat her that way. Sure, I'd complain up and down about having to let her tag along on adventures and keep an eye on her, but God forbid anyone else criticize her. Then they'd be ripped a new one. I was the only one allowed to abuse her.

Time eventually changed my attitude. I had a few wake-up calls along the way. And I finally faced the reality that most of my resentment came from my own poor self-esteem and my jealousy that my sister is, very truthfully, Just Plain Awesome.

She is. She's smart, beautiful, athletic, generous, outgoing, sensitive, funny, friendly, loving, and hard-working. So's her husband. These days when I tell people about them (with a bit of a brag, by the way), I often say It's a good thing they're so damn likable, because otherwise it would be very easy to hate them.

And there's only a tiny bit of snark in there. Because seriously, they're amazing people.

Our relationship is not entirely healed from the damage I did all those years ago. But we have worked on it, and these days? These days I can say, very honestly, that I AM sorry and that I DO love her.

So Happy Birthday, SoccerSister. It's been a long and often painful road, but I am so very grateful that you are my sister (and, um, that you're also so forgiving. *ahem*) This year to come is going to be life-changing for you like little else, and I truly hope that I can be a presence in your journey that makes you, as well, grateful to have a sister.

I love you.

Birth Day

She was young, too young, and the mother of five young children who still needed her as children always need their mothers, small or no. She had been dying by inches, holding on for days and weeks through pain and vomiting and decay and her body's rejection of man's last attempts to save it. She held on by sheer will, something left undone, something left unfinished. It wasn't, somehow, her time.

Four years ago today, her husband held her hand and told her she could go. He loved her, he always would, but she could let go. It was time to go Home.

And she left us, quietly, between one breath and another, slipping from this world into the next, leaving behind parents and siblings and nieces and nephews and friends beyond count, leaving behind the five children who had also said their farewells to what extent they understood.

The news traveled. We wept. Even though I was stone, I wept. And I was angry. Death had robbed her of all the years she should have spent on this earth.

Four years later, I still weep. But now, I see that day from a new perspective. I cannot be truly angry. I do not understand why she left us too soon, but I do understand something else.

What we saw as Death was instead her Birth.

Hers were tears of joy as she stood in a new body, one that stood tall and strong, her hair thick and full again, her skin unswollen and unblemished. No pain. No anguish. She ran with sure feet, arms spread open, and gathered in the children waiting there, the precious souls she had never known as more than a momentary existence before loss had swept them away. Her face rose to the blazing glory that lay before her, and she shone in the light of the Son.

Her real life began then.

C. S. Lewis says we live in the Shadowlands, the dim, dark outline of that country that lies Further Up and Further In, where lies "the beginning of the true story, which goes on forever, and in which every chapter is better than the one before." She lives there now, and her story here with us was but the Prologue to the eternal one written by the Great Author.

Shoe Love

DraftQueen was my Valentine this year (Oh my sweet Valentine! How I miss thee! You sure you want to move to New Mexico instead of Michigan? Sigh.) and as I mentioned, we're sole sisters. We both love shoes. And while we don't always have the same taste in shoes, sometimes, well, we do.

So when we wandered into our fifth shoe store Famous Footwear during our ramblings around a very small mall (now with mall cop!!!), we both spotted the same pair of shoes and fell in love. We had to try them on. Problem was, the shoe was on clearance. There were two pairs left, but only one of us fit a pair.

Guess who that was?

LOVE means having your tootsies hugged by beauty like this all day long. And looking at this pic, wow but my feet are small. Are my ankles really that large in comparison? Sigh. I swear, I don't have cankles!

Sadly, this means we are not shoe buddies and can't, like, totally wear the same shoes on the same day! Because that would be so awesome, fer sure!

I, however, am totally rocking these shoes. And hey, my tattoo gets to come out and play!

In Music, Memoriam

Fraught Mummy at Brits in Bosnia started a meme ages ago, and she tagged me. She instructed us to write about "a song that reminds you of something, that has a story for you. Not necessarily your favourite song or a even a song that you love, but a song that instantly takes you back to that time and place." 

It's a meme that's perfect for me in many ways, because music connects to memory for me All The Time. I have entire soundtracks for times in my life. DraftQueen is my official LifeTrack DJ, in fact, because she always seems to find the perfect song to send me when Things Happen. The problem, therefore, is not thinking of a song, but choosing just one. 

It took me a long while to get around to this post. The timing, therefore, is choosing the song for me. And because of the nature of this post, I can't tag people the normal way. So if you are inspired to carry on this meme, please do.

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Four years ago my mother sent out an email asking for some help. My aunt, her only and baby sister, was nearing the end of a long fight with leukaemia. She was in hospice. The toxic side effects of chemo and the gradual failure of her body had made her restless and highly sensitive to sound. She could no longer handle being read to for any length of time. She craved music, but only certain music was bearable. My mother, who had become her main non-medical caretaker in hospice, asked us if we could find and send CDs that were soothing, instrumental only, and uplifting.

I felt helpless, much as I had been feeling for months. I had just born my first baby, the tiny DramaBoy, a couple of months earlier. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and (unknowingly) depressed. My beloved aunt, the one after whom I was named, the one who had cared for me when I was a baby, the one who had fought so hard and so long for all five of her own beloved babes, was dying, and there was nothing I could do.

I looked through the instrumental music racks at Best Buy and Borders. I found a couple of possibilities under the New Age category, but still felt uncertain about my choices. Neither felt quite right.

At that time DramaBoy was up frequently during the night, and I had taken to tuning the satellite tv to the New Age music station. The slow-moving blue title box gave just enough light to maneuvre without waking DramaBoy's father, and the music kept me company and calm. I would sit propped against the pillows to nurse my small son, dazed and halfway dozing while the mainly instrumental music would wash over me.

One night as I stared blankly at whatever was in front of me, DramaBoy suckling peacefully at my breast, I heard a lovely piano piece begin. The melody was what snapped my head up from half-mast. I knew that song. I knew the words. And something about it spoke to me.

The title box informed me that the piece was, indeed, "As The Deer"*, the artist was named David Nevue, and the album was titled Overcome. Realizing that there was no way I would remember this by morning, I grabbed a serendipitous scrap of paper and pen and jotted down the information.

When I looked up the artist and album the next day on Amazon, I discovered, to my amazement, that Nevue (a Christian pianist who specializes in lovely inspirational albums based on hymns and psalms) had composed and recorded the album as his father was dying from cancer. I listened to the progression of songs and knew that this CD was meant for my aunt. I ordered it that day.

My mother told me later that near the end, Overcome was one of only two CDs that my aunt could listen to. Again and again she would ask for it, calling it "[my] CD", using the nickname I went by as a young girl. It was playing that day in March 2006 when she peacefully passed from this world into the next.

I am crying as I write this. My aunt's death is something I have never completely worked through. I am torn between anger that someone so young and so loved, the adoring mother of five very young children, was taken from us too soon and in such a very painful way; and joy that her life AND her death were full of meaning. She and her story touched many lives. She still does.

I could not bring myself to listen to Overcome for years, even though my mother gave me my own copy, as she did many other family members. Last year, as I was working through a different grief and different loss, I finally started listening to it, often at night as I once again struggled to sleep. And finally I was able to find peace in its lovely music rather than torment and grief.

As the deer panteth for the water
So my soul longeth after Thee
You alone are my heart's desire
And I long to worship Thee

You alone are my strength, my shield
To You alone may my spirit yield
You alone are my heart's desire
And I long to worship Thee

As the deer panteth for the water
So my soul longeth after Thee
You alone are my heart's desire
And I long to worship Thee

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*From Psalm 42

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.

Shadows

Yesterday was Groundhog Day. I didn't really notice at the time, what with all the depression and sadness and whatnot that happens when one's relationship comes to an end. I knew the timing for our beginning had been bad, that we had a lot of obstacles facing us, and I understand the reasons he feels he just can't be in a relationship at this point in his life, but pain doesn't care much about how logical the cause is.

I am clinging to hope rather than despair, however, and am doing whatever I can not to fall into the darkness. My friends are amazing. Add my sister in there, too, who called and talked and listened for a long time despite not feeling particularly well yesterday. I look back at last year, at the torment I was going through then as another relationship was ending (much more traumatically and messily and in a very drawn-out manner, mind you) and realize that the difference--in me, in my coping mechanisms, in the depth and breadth of my support group--is astonishing. Not that I don't feel like my heart is trying to tear itself in two, but I was actually able to laugh last night. I ate lunch today, voluntarily, for the first time in days. I made it through the workdays and functioned: my students could tell I was struggling, but I was able to be an effective teacher nonetheless. I didn't walk out. I didn't disappear. And rather than having a tiny handful of friends and family with whom to talk, I had...well, I lost count. The love floods in.

And these last four-plus months? They've been good. They've been healing. I gained confidence in myself. I learned a lot about myself, about life, about relationships. I did things I've never done before. There was stress and angst, but there was also a great deal of happiness. And ultimately, even though it's hard to feel that way right now, I do know that time was worth the pain.

Then today I heard that my great-uncle, my mother's paternal uncle, passed away after years of battling Parkinsons. It's been a long time since I saw him or his family, because they've lived in Florida for years, but I have fond memories of Great-Uncle J. I remember his amazing Donald Duck voice he'd use for all of us kids. I remember his kindness and gentle sense of humor. I only had him as a regular presence in my life for a relatively few years, but he left his mark. He will be missed.

So now I wonder: if bad news comes in threes, what more lies in wait this week?

It doesn't matter so much whether Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow or not yesterday. I'm thinking he may have had the right idea when he turned around and headed back indoors.

But I'm taking my friends with me.

absence

i miss you
your smiles and giggles
your chuckles and sly glances
snuggling in bed on lazy mornings
while you climb and wrestle over me
on me
i am your playground

sometimes i lie there and listen
while you talk and play and fight
in your room
knowing that all too soon
you will no longer be content
with such small things
some books
a train
a dragon
some bears

and find myself torn
between longing for
and fearing
those all-too-soon
not-soon-enough
days and years
when you will be grown enough
to need me less

i fear you leaving me
and yet
know that is what you must do
someday
if i have done my job

and on these days
when the distance is real
the absence already here
i bury the ache
push the loss to the back of my mind
busy myself with all the things
and people
who fill me up in other ways

today
this moment
it's not enough
and i cannot deny
even to myself

yes
i miss you
and always will

[im]patience

patience is a virtue
true
but i'm not that virtuous
and instead sit gritting teeth
clenching fists
eying the heavens to ask
when?
it doesn't seem much to ask
just a deadline
not even an hour
just a date
june 21st
for example
and then i can exhale and say
all right
i can hold out until then

i'm sure this is all very
character building
this uncertainty and fear
lessons i sorely need
in patience and reliance on others
and yes
i know i need to
let go let God
release it all and
take it day by day
all those old cliches
and aphorisms
and maxims
that are rooted in truth

but knowledge
and application
are two different things
i think i may be lacking the gene for patience
so i asked a friend to pull in her contacts
and see if they could splice me one
you see?
i'm already asking for help
and that's better than i used to be
when i thought i had to do everything on my own

maybe they'll earn a nobel prize
for genetics
by decoding a patience gene
and helping me out

until then
i sit here on the couch
remind myself to breathe
think a bit
pray a bit
and quell the urge to catch time by the throat
and throttle some certainty out of it