Split/Second

On Friday, just after school let out, one of my tenth graders tried to do a backflip in the hallway. He was not successful. His neck was broken in two places. By a true miracle, the bones that should have broken and cut off his airway were flicked back into place when his head bounced.

He should have died.

As it is, he is lying in intensive care, scheduled for surgery today, with no feeling from the neck down. He cannot make sounds, but is awake, alert, and mouthing words. He was able to move a hand, although he could not feel himself doing so, or the sensation of his sister holding that hand.

On Saturday about fifty students showed up to visit him. When his sister told him they were there and asked if he would like to see them, he mouthed to her, Send in the ladies. 

I laughed when I heard that story. That is so him.

My class, the one he's in, cannot send cards or flowers or anything while he is in the ICU. So they scrawled messages of love on the white board, gathered in front of it, and posed for a cell phone picture which is being sent to his family. His sister holds the cell phone up for him to see all the messages and pictures pouring in, the love sent his and their way.

It only takes a split second. One decision made, one moment of youthful exuberance. We pray he will recover fully, but there's no way to know right now. In the meantime, we're left reeling in the wake, struggling to grasp what happened, thanking God for miracles, praying for the doctors who hold his body in their hands, praying to the Master Healer who holds his future in His hands.

In Which the Men in White Coats Nearly Had Their Way With Me

Around 12:35 in the wee barely-morning hours of Sunday morning, I posted on Facebook the following status:

THEY ARE STILL AWAKE. DEAR GOD HELP ME. THEY ARE STILL AWAKE.

For some reason this only seemed to elicit amusement from the general masses. Many of whom are parents themselves, and who apparently have already been initiated into the insanity that is The Sleepover. I, as a newb to its reality, was struggling to find the humor in it all.

I was, however, forced to chuckle at one former schoolmate's response: He hears you [TeacherMommy], He hears you. And He's laughing his head off.

I always knew God had a sense of humor. My students are living proof.

So how did I get into this insanity? Well, DramaBoy's best friend is a little girl about four months younger than he. Let's call her ADHDGirl. It just so happens that I taught her older sister last year when she was a junior. I am also good friends with her mother--we met at daycare and had one of those instant connections that would keep us standing in the parking lot for an hour talking. She has had a difficult life, to say the least, and recently has been having a particularly Tough Time. So when I talked to her on the phone the other day and heard that edge in her voice that I know has been in mine on far too many occasions, I told her that she was going to drop ADHDGirl off on Saturday night and could pick her up Sunday morning, and that she had no choice in the matter.

And then I stocked up on multicolored goldfish, apple juice, and Xanax.

Oh, I'm kidding. There wasn't enough time to get the apple juice.

OMG. I had no idea that adding one little four-year-old to the mix would make life so...interesting. For much of the evening I simply stayed out of the way, chatting online to friends (many of whom were laughing at me) and wishing the water I was sipping was wine and occasionally yelling a reminder that YOU ARE FRIENDS AND NEED TO TREAT EACH OTHER THAT WAY and trying not to twitch. Then I spent several hours trying to get them to STAY in the bed into which they had been tucked. Yeah right.

DramaBoy, of course, woke up way too early the next morning, but at least he stayed quiet for the one hour before the other two rioted their way down the stairs. Then chaos reigned again. I was so worn out and grumpy that a friend who lives down the road took pity on me and showed up at my doorstep with a large coffee. Which may have saved my life.

At least when my friend who owes me so frickin' badly whom I love dearly arrived to pick up ADHD girl, she looked much more sane. Which is good, because one of us should be. And which made it all worthwhile.

And if you needed more proof that I am crazy, I even told her I'll probably do it again.

But I'm going to upgrade to Prozac first.

Because, Apparently, When I Get Anxious I Attack Myself

I forgot my cell phone at home today.

I have chosen to believe that this is the reason for the tightness in my throat and chest and arms and all those other lovely symptoms of a low-level anxiety attack. Because honestly, I am so tired of the drama.

It's my own drama, mind you. I live it, I fight it, I even create it. (I know, big surprise.)

But I am tired of it. And lately I've been feeling that urge to just run away and leave it all behind. Yesterday I chose to bury myself in bed and force myself to take a brief nap rather than call work and tell them I'd be gone for another couple of days, so sorry, can't be helped, and drive Somewhere, Anywhere. Even though it would only be for 48 hours because I will be there on Wednesday to pick up my boys from daycare. It would have been a temporary running-away. I'm not leaving my children.

That's for damn certain.

Running away doesn't solve anything, though, so I slept for about twenty minutes instead and then got up and did some grading and read some of a fascinating critical analysis of Tolkein's work (which even inspired me to underline and comment in the margins all academic-like) and exercised for about forty minutes and ate spaghetti and very consciously chose to Chill Out.

I should probably do this more often. Well, except for the spaghetti part, though I am looking forward to my leftovers at lunch. Tonight I will have barbequed chicken and I'm thinking perhaps there should be something green and vegetably as a side.

Stress and anxiety are generally agreed as being Bad For Your Health, and I've been evidencing this lately. Among other things, I've been increasingly klutzy, which can be rather embarassing when the evidence cannot be hidden easily. Last week I managed to get all distracted and close the door to my car's trunk on my head.

...

Done laughing? Good. Let me explain, just a little. My car (a Saturn Vue) was in a closed garage with enough space to open the trunk and place things inside, but not enough to stand directly behind it while doing so. I had been putting things in the trunk and got distracted by some falling leftovers in the bag in my hand and tried to close the door.

My head kinda sorta got trapped between the (closed) garage door and the car door. Which left a nice big bleeding dent in my forehead. Right in the middle, where my hair will not cover it. I also had some nice lumps elsewhere on my head, though I didn't notice them until much later, after the throbbing faded in my forehead.

I am proud to say that I managed to refrain from crying or screaming. I applied ice and waited almost an hour to make sure I wasn't concussed before I drove away.

It's been interesting to watch the progression of the gash. It's been even more interesting to field the questions I get from everyone. Those who do not know me well ask if alcohol was involved. There are also the looks of concern that say, very clearly, Yeah right. You hit your head on a door? That's an old one. Quite a few mothers assume one or both of my children must have been at fault.

The general response to my (truthful and self-deprecating) explaination is...laughter. Some people are more polite and at least TRY to conceal their mirth. Others just guffaw.

It's okay.

Really.

Because no one else can make me feel any stupider about it than I already do. And I'm okay with that.

Obviously, having a Master's degree does not mean a person is always all that bright. And I can't be perfect all the time. That would be too boring.

God forbid that I be boring. Then I really would have something to panic about.

How I Managed To Ignore My Body's Messages Until Things Were Getting Really Bad: A Cautionary Tale

So it turns out that if you go to the midnight showing of New Moon and you eat lots of ridiculously rich and yummy fondue beforehand and have a few drinks and then you're standing in line for concessions and you feel all yucky and dizzy and your back hurts and you have to sit down for a bit?

It might not just be the food and drink.

And if you spend the whole next day feeling weak and dizzy and your stomach hurts and you stick it out and even go to the after-work get-together with some colleagues and get your kids home and to bed and then stay up a little later making your son's birthday gift and finally collapse into bed because you still feel like crap?

It might not just be the two-and-a-half hours of sleep and lack of proper eating during the day.

And if you wake up the next day and your stomach is cramping and your legs are wobbly and you feel dizzy and your back hurts and you have chills and then certain other symptoms start showing up and so you cancel your plans to visit grandparents with the kidlets that day and instead spend the day huddled under the covers until you finally decide maybe you should go to urgent care because it's all getting worse?

It might not be a simple stomach bug.

No, it might turn out to be that you have a urinary tract infection that is working its way to your kidneys.

Thank God for antibiotics.

(And yes, I'm feeling quite a bit better, thank you! Now to get through the birthday party after all...)

Sometimes You Wish You Were Wrong

The warning signs were there.


The arguments. The possessive gestures. The angry words. The demands that she separate herself from her friends, from her family, from her extracurricular activities. The cold shoulder when she didn't please him enough or talked to someone he didn't like.

They sat in my class and I watched them alternate between Antartic chill and get-a-room heat. I could almost see the chains glitter sullenly in the flourescent lights.

Her friends were worried. They came to me in ones and twos and threes. We don't know what to do, they said. She's changed so much. She won't listen to us and she's starting to avoid even talking to us any more.

Has he hit her? I asked.

We don't know. We don't think so. He might have pushed her a little, but she isn't talking and we haven't seen it, they said. We're just worried about what will happen. He's not good for her.

I pulled her into the hall one day when they'd had a particularly nasty argument that ended in tears, however tightly held back, glimmering in her eyes. He didn't want to leave her behind. I made him go to his next class. He went reluctantly, glancing back all the way down the hall.

I'm worried about you two, I told her. I talked to her about the warning signs, about her friends' concerns, about what I saw in class.

He's just a little jealous, she said. He doesn't hit me or anything. He just loves me so much and he has a hard time with me doing things without him.

I'm worried, I said. This kind of relationship isn't healthy. I'm worried about where it could go. Please think about it.

I will, she said, and she made her escape. She must have gone straight to him. He must have gotten her to tell him what happened.

He was angry. He emailed me, telling me I had no business telling her these things, that I was out of line, that he wanted to talk to me about it.

I emailed back. It is my business when you are my students and you are in my class and your relationship affects each other and my classroom, I wrote. I would be more than happy to talk to you face to face about this. Let's meet after class.

He never replied, never addressed it. He backed off a bit in class, tried to charm me a little.

They don't like strong women who call their bluffs.

Five months later, I had him in a new class in a new school year. Two weeks in, he disappeared from my classroom and my roster. I received an email saying he is not allowed within one hundred feet of her and I am to report any interactions whatsoever to the deputy.

I saw her today. How are you? I asked. What happened? Are you okay?

She told me the story, about the jealous rage that led to him throwing her across the parking lot, breaking her cell phone, punching her in the face, chasing her as she fled in her car after a good samaritan pulled him off her, only giving up when she swung wildly into the lot of a police station.

Should I go to the sentencing? she asked. The prosecutor thinks I should.

You need to go, I told her. Not just because he needs to be sentenced and the judge needs you there, but for yourself. You need to be able to face him and stand up and be strong.

You could have said 'I told you so,' she said. You were right.

I didn't want to be right. I never wanted to be right.

It's a Good Thing I'm Not a Model, Because They'd Lose a Fortune on the Touchups

Footwear Photo of the Day (I'm doing my best to keep Lauren happy here, especially considering...well, you'll see tomorrow):

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Those who know me well know that I'm a spectacular klutz. Add in the fact that I also bruise like a quasi-hemophiliac, and it's amazing I ever put on anything other than jeans and a turtleneck. It's less When you cut me, do I not bleed? and more When you touch me, do I not bruise like I've been attacked by a very ticked-off and muddy rainbow?

You might think this is a particular trial and/or tribulation for me during the summer, but actually I don't do too badly then. If Joe and I are still dating next summer and he gets me out on a plethora of motorized toys the way he'd like to, that may change, but so far my summers have been more of the supervising-from-the-sidelines and sunning-on-the-deck variety and less of the throwing-myself-bodily-into-active-living sort. I might have the occasional delicate coloration on my knees and shins, but nothing tragic.

No, it's during the physical hardship of the school year that the full, glorious evidence of my klutzdom comes to light. My legs take the brunt of the battering, since I apparently can't keep track of where the tables/chairs/backpacks/doors/desks are and constantly bash my thighs, knees, and shins into any solid object within a three-foot radius. Most of the year I have twin bruises halfway up my thigh from the edges of the student tables:

This was taken about a week-and-a-half after the fact, and on my cell phone. It's a little darker in reality. My bruises are nothing if not persistent.

I have been more klutzy than usual lately, however, so I have a number of hematomas gained elsewhere than in my classroom. There's the slowly fading bruise on my upper arm from bashing into the edge of the slanted ceiling in my parents' Skyhouse suite while frantically packing two weeks ago. This bruise elicted a question or two from some students, who looked rather suspicious when I told them I ran into a ceiling.

Finally I have the grandmammy of them all, added just this last Friday. It's fresh and fabulous. I was climbing out of a boat and got tangled in the mooring rope (because I'm awesome like that), managing to bash my left knee and shin into the side of the boat so hard that this was the result:

I told you. It is currently an ominous blackish-purple with a hint of olive green, sort of like an oncoming storm of the sort that requires a special shelter. Oh, and you should feel privileged that I'm actually showing you my knobbly knee. Not my favorite body part.

However, the worst bruise I ever earned was achieved over four years ago, two weeks after we moved into the house-that-is-now-worth-less-than-we-owe-dammit. Unaccustomed to carpeted stairs, I was going down one day with my new kitten clutched under my arm when my besocked feet slipped. Rather than save myself, I elected to save the kitten, with the result that I bounced down a flight of stairs mainly on my right butt-cheek. I landed on the landing (is that why it's called that?) with such force that the breath was knocked out of me and all I could do was gasp and moan and wonder if my rear end was still attached or if I even wanted it to be.

I was accused by someone who shall remain nameless of overdramatizing the incident--until the bruise showed up a few hours later. It's amazing how quickly the skepticism vanished.

I have used my mad coloring skillz to create a crayoned approximation of what this bruise looked like:

Imagine this as about four to five inches in diameter and, well, less pretty. With a dead-white lump in the center.

The bruise was like a reverse sunny-side-up egg: about the same size, with a dead-white raised "yolk" in the center and an amazing spread of purple-green-yellow-black radiating outward. Right where I usually plant myself in a chair.

I couldn't sit straight for a couple of weeks. The lump would not go down. I hied myself to the doctor's office, where the doctor looked at my otherwise attractive rear in frank amazement (and not of the good sort), hummed to himself a bit, and then called in two more doctors for a consult. They also hmmed, ahhed, and peered more closely at my nether regions than I'm accustomed to. Certainly it was the largest audience that part of my unclothed body has had since I was a kiddo running around sans diaper.

All three doctors admitted that they'd never seen anything quite like it before. Which was very comforting, as you can imagine. They then suggested I take myself to a surgical specialist (really? for an ass-bruise?) where the specialist might be able to ascertain whether the lump was the result of a fluid build-up and perhaps remove said hypothetical fluid using a monster needle.

Yeah, right.

So now, four years later, the surrounding coloration has vanished, but the lump has not. I know that's probably more information than you want to know about my anatomical particularities, but hey, whatever.

It's not like I'll be showing it off on here.

You can beg all you want.

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Tomorrow: a harrowing tale of bruises inflicted not on my own flesh, but the flesh of another.

Trust me, she asked for it.

This One Time, At English Class...

So today my 11th grade (male) student J.A. walked into my 4th hour and said Ms. TeacherMommy, I need you to help me with my pants!

Hmm. I was a little taken aback. I mean, that's the sort of thing that lands educators in the newspapers, if you know what I mean. The other students in the classroom goggled and giggled. Great, now I had witnesses.

Um, WHAT? I said.

I need you to fix my pants! he said, with an earnestness I don't normally hear in his voice.

I might need to stop and explain that this particular student is one half of one of the many couples I have in this particular hour. It's a bit bizarre, really. They're all attached at the hip and nearly the lip, and I even posted a poem over at Secret Spineless Whine yesterday about this particular couple. J.A. isn't normally the type to ask me for any help, if you get my meaning.

Anyhow, he advanced toward me, clutching his huge black jeans (seriously, this baggy jean thing is getting awfully old) in a rather odd way.

These broke! he said, demonstrating two belt loops dangling mournfully from the top of the waistband, And I can't keep my pants up. Can you fix it?

I looked at him, nonplussed. Um, what do you want me to do? I asked, eying him askance. I mean, that's not exactly a place I normally touch students.

Can you sew them? he said, glancing at my cross stitch where it lay upon my desk.

This needle is an embroidery needle. It isn't sharp--it wouldn't do anything, I replied.

After a fruitless search for safety pins or a sewing kit or anything else along these lines, I was at a loss. I started wondering where I could get a hold of some duct tape so we could wrap him up like a broken pipe.

Finally another student came to his rescue, offering some safety pins she keeps around for making friendship bracelets.

I think you should probably have your girlfriend put those in, I remarked, unwilling to put my hands anywhere on his person.

Next thing I knew, he was standing in the back of the room with his girlfriend kneeling before him. Needless to say, the room started erupting in giggles and ribald remarks.

I can't look! I said, shielding my eyes. This just isn't something I'm used to seeing in my classroom, much less contributing to!

I'm just fixing his pants! C.C., his girlfriend, protested.

Is that what they're calling it these days? said another girl dryly.

AHHHH! J.A. yelped suddenly, leaping back a few feet. SHE POKED ME!

The classroom lost it. So did I.

Finally, when I could catch my breath, I suggested he go to the boys restroom (I'm afraid your girlfriend is not going to be able to help you this time, I said), remove the pants, fix the remaining belt loop, and return to the classroom.

We managed to calm down and get back to business (a.k.a. Macbeth) by the time he returned.

Sometimes it's just hard to stay in a bad mood around here.

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!

Shaky but Grateful

I was going to hop on tonight and do a post about The Widget, whose second birthday was yesterday and somehow did not get his deserved paean of praise and love. However, about half an hour ago, on my way home from a date with ComputerDaddy, I hit a patch of water while braking on the VERY wet highway and spun out of control. I ended up doing a 360 all the way across three lanes of highway and back again. Miraculously, I did not hit the median, did not hit any other cars (or trucks, which were barreling down the road like the rain did not exist), and did not cause anyone else to crash or lose control. I ended up mostly on the grassy shoulder, angled back towards oncoming traffic, the car stalled out, saying Thank You! Thank You! over and over as I hunched over the wheel.

I still don't know the physics of how I didn't hit that median and instead spun back across the road. I'm not so sure there wasn't a helpful push from one of my guardian angels.

So I'll post about The Widget tomorrow. I think he would understand.