Cole...

It is about this time of year that I forget why I became a teacher. The rowdy pre-pubescent children that invade my classroom daily, make me pine for my own little ladies.  Why do I choose to spend time with twenty-eight smelly twelve year olds when my two lovely preschoolers keep asking why Mommy has to go to work.

I work because, well, I have to. That's a given. But I teach because I think I'm good at it...or I used to be at least. The last decade has hardened my view of education. It is so grievously flawed. It's impossible to realize unless you actually practice the profession. Parents wave excitedly as they send their children off to AWARD WINNING BLUE RIBBON SCHOOLS!!!  Not realizing, however, that winning those awards is akin to securing the presidential nomination. It takes a lot of money and politicking and not nearly enough of the character and integrity it should. Wealthy schools win the awards. My school district just secured the title of NATIONAL SCHOOL DISTRICT OF CHARACTER! This is the same school, where just weeks ago, sixth grade students stood around and took pictures with their phones of an overweight fourth grade girl who had fallen between the seats of the bus. The pictures were sent to nearly every member of the student body in minutes. The punishment. Detention for a few. The reward? Toting the title of a nationally recognized school of character.

There are plenty of moments though that remind me of how important it is that I keep trying. Trying to reach the kids and help them to positively impact the lives of others.

A few years ago I had a young boy named Cole. Cole came into sixth grade a tiny pipsqueak of a thing. He had lost his mother to cancer the summer before and his best friend Nathan also suffered from the same disease. Needless to say, Cole was fragile and his father impressed upon me time and again that he needed a loving female figure in his life.

The first essay he wrote for me was about his mother, how her passing had crushed him. He envied everyone's familial situations. And who could blame him for that? Cole would cry at the drop of the hat and I was certain he would not make it through the year. How could I possibly help him? I would sit in my car and cry; college did not prepare you for these kinds of situations.  So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I talked to him. About anything and everything. I would sit on the floor next to his desk, while the other students were working, and we would just talk. At first he didn't say much, but as the year progressed he opened up more and more. Our daily chat sessions turned into debates and wagers, mostly centered around football.  

Cole and I made bets for every Steeler game, the loser having to bring in lunch for the victor. We exchanged turkey sandwiches time and again while Monday morning quarterbacking about our black and gold.When the Steelers made it to the Super Bowl that year, I called him at home and we hooted and  hollered over the phone. He was forever jumping up and down in front of me, begging me to assess his work or "look at this picture I drew!"  Occasionally he would confide in me; worries and whatnot. But mostly he smiled and we enjoyed each other's company for the duration of sixth grade. The bell rang on the final day and I didn't see him for four years, until last week.

The high school choir came to sing songs about character and there was Cole, grown into a man, belting out tunes in the front row. I could scarcely believe how tall he was, and watched in admiration from the back row of the auditorium. When the final note had been sung, he leapt from the stage and ran towards me, picking me up like a sack of potatoes. Without a care in the world he buried his face in my neck, swung me around and said "I've waited so long to see you."

He was doing so well. Singing in the choir, fronting his own band and sheepishly admitting that he did indeed have a girlfriend. I put my hands on his face, like mother's do, and told him how grown up he was, how proud I was of him. He gave me one last squeeze and promised, as he ran back to the stage, to visit soon. As I walked back to homeroom with my rowdy class of tweens, they all wanted to know who he was. Why was he hugging me? Was he a student of mine?

Very simply, he is why I love what I do.

Breakable...

Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts?

Just a cage of rib bones and other various parts

So it's fairly simple to cut right through the mess,

And to stop the muscle that makes us confess

They met in law school and, to follow the age old cliche', it was love at first sight. I vividly remember viewing their relationship as if through a frosted windowpane, eager to join them inside by the fire. They had a love that was timeless; one that many envied. Including myself. After a while they started to almost resemble one another and their first names became one in conversation. AmyandAllan.

And we are so fragile,

And our cracking bones make noise,

And we are just,

Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys

He had crooked glasses and, upon drinking too much rum, attached his Ipod to his shorts and scrubbed the house into limp submission. Rage Against the Machine was his poison. We giggled and pointed. It didn't fit his look. He was a bookish nerd with a death metal soul. He smoked; cigarette dangling from his fingers. He walked with a deliberate shuffle. Eager to get on with life.

And you fasten my seat belt because it is the law

In your two ton death trap I finally saw

A piece of love in your face that bathed me in regret

Then you drove me to places I'll never forget

They married in November of 2001 on a day that denied the coming of winter. The sun shone and the air was warm against our strapless shoulders. We danced and drank and they looked at each other and no one else. They were the essence of love. On a vacation with us a few years later they created life. The scandal. Were they just in the next room?

And we are so fragile,
And our cracking bones make noise,

And we are just,

Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys

And then fate, deciding he was needed for other endeavors, took him. In a blinding flash of light she was now solo. The essence of love snuffed out. If we try hard enough can we still remember the timbre of his voice? If you stare long enough at a picture, can you travel there? If life takes your love, does it still exist somewhere?

It does. It will. We will all make sure of that.

To Allan Wertz

September 8, 2009

Husband

Father

Friend

Healing Winter's Wounds....

Head in hands, I sank to the steps and let the first tears finally fall. Another year was too long to wait...

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

My family's annual trip to Deep Creek is one we anxiously look forward to for months. This year, after being given a one two punch from Old Man Winter, the trip was not just a treat, but a necessity. We all were itching to reconnect, laugh, drink and shed our weary winter coats at last. For me it was so much more. Nearly three full days with my babies and my Boy...a rare gift.

Sitting in the passenger seat, the sun warming my face, I felt uniquely blessed.  The three people I cherish more than anything in the world were sharing the same space and I felt waves of nostalgia consume me. It had been more than two years since I was part of a "nuclear" family and for a few days I was going to revel in it. It wasn't just Girl, it was us. And so we drove and chatted and yelled at the little ladies not to put their feet on the seat. And, for a moment, we were one.

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

We arrived first, anxiously awaiting my mother's arrival. The entrance of Mum would signal the start of the festivities. And lunchmeat. Mum always gets there first, raids the local grocery store and stocks up on enough lunchmeat to feed hungry children in Siberia. She also has an uncanny ability to buy exactly what is needed in the exact right amount. She rolled into the cabin armed with fifteen pounds of ham, toothpaste, coffee creamer and frisbees as big as the sun. Good lord did we have fun with those damn frisbees.

As the day progressed the rest of the clan slowly trickled in. Shortly before sunset all had arrived, claiming rooms and cracking beers. As the sun began to set, we all gathered outside to warm our faces in the waning light and breathe in the lake air. Music drifted along the breeze, kids were chased, hugs and high fives became more prevalent as the drinks flowed. And the time together started to heal what the winter had wounded.

The rest of the weekend was more of the same, too much to write here. We watched Papa dive into the hot tub, now conspicuously filled with bubbles and knocked each other over when the winning goal drifted across the red line. The Pens were headed to the next round. The girlfriends and I caught up while deveining shrimp, grilling one another on love and life. The wine on the windowsill threatened to spill as Pink and Tink rumbled by on their bikes. We cooked a gluttonous feast for the crew and I felt, in that moment, that I was whole again. What the last two years had taken from me had finally been returned in this brightly lit room full of food and laughter. Family and understanding. I looked at my mother and saw all that she and Papa had created.  All of these people, with all of their gifts and faults, all in one room. I was humbled by the enormity of it.

And Boy, fitting in like a glove. Shriveled from too much time in the hot tub, stomach sore from laughter. I never wanted to leave.

But leave we must and we did, parting with a last look at the lake and sending a silent wish to whomever would listen that the next year keep us all safe and in enough love that we meet back here again. Again, to let our hair down at the end of a long winter's nap.

Thanks Mum...

365...

Do you remember...

The night we met...sharing wine and tapas...
Butterflies invaded my body.
On some level I knew you...
All night I tried to decode this feeling...
I was home...
It was you...
It has always been you...
Your hand in my hand....
Your breath on my lips....
I recognized them from some other life...
You weren't new to me...
We were rekindling a love extinguished...
Not the love of my life, but the love in my life...
Home.

Happy first anniversary Boy...

I love you...

Checks and Balances...

"What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?" - George Eliot

At an interminable Inservice meeting today, we were discussing our Emotional Account Balances. The bank accounts of the heart, if you will. Our relationships, whether they be good or bad, make deposits and withdrawals upon our lives.  The goal, of course, is to stay in the black.  If too many relationships leave us wading in the red, we run the risk of becoming emotionally bankrupt.

The teacher running the show was encouraging us to think of a prominent relationship in our lives and create a list of withdrawals and deposits, hopefully realizing the the deposit list is much higher. Of course, my mind and heart go immediately to Boy. We are nearing the first anniversary of our first date and I am immensely proud of that for many reasons, not the least of which is that I have never had a relationship so full of deposits. His generosity is so humbling that I feel almost embarrassed at times. In one year's time he has completely changed the way I view love.

I had a brief moment of insecurity recently and questioned Boy about his feelings for me, to which he replied, "If I didn't want to be here Girl, I wouldn't." And he's right. Boy doesn't pull any punches and he doesn't buy into emotional girly games. His actions have proven time and again what a loyal and honest person he is.

The other night we had tickets to see David Gray. I bought them for Boy, delighted that I was finally able to give something back to him. A mere pittance, considering all he's done for me, but he was so excited. So it was quite apropos that I got the stomach flu the day of the concert. Being as stubborn as ever, I was determined to go.  Boy saw the agony I was in as we drove to the show and made the executive decision that we weren't going, no ifs ands or buts about it. Instead of enjoying a grown up night out on the town, I ended up on the couch in my sweatpants and manrobe, while Boy watched Alvin and the Chipmunks with Pink and Tink. He put jammies on the girls, brushed their teeth and snuggled up with Pink as the Chipettes rocked out to the Single Ladies. I may have been physically spent, but my emotional bank account was completely full.

Ten years ago today, I got engaged. I was emotionally bankrupt, but the huge rock on my finger was proof that I was getting all I had ever wanted. Too bad I never actually asked myself what it was that I needed instead. Fast forward a decade and I could care less about jewelry and presents, or the next big thing. Right now I have all I ever really needed. I owe so much of that to Boy. So...thank you Boy for too many things to name. But, mostly, for depositing so much of your love into my account. I am eternally grateful.

Asides...

I am working on a scathing post about public education, but until then, to tide over my valued readers...I present you with Asides.  Random stuff I think about that makes Boy ask..."Where do you come up with this crap?!"

• If I was ever on death row, God forbid, I already know exactly what I'd choose for my last meal. It would have to be the turkey and mashed potato dinner that they serve for school lunches. I crave it. I would ask the warden to fill up a child's swimming pool of the stuff and I would sit in it while I waited to meet my maker. 
• As much as I would like bigger boobs, I could never get a boob job. I'd be so stressed about people staring at my chest that I'd be forced to wear turtleneck sweaters in the summer. I'd never get a nose job either. With my luck I'd end up looking like Michael Jackson and be forced to do the moonwalk at parties. 
• I only eat Doritos with the cheesiest side down so that hits my tongue first. Go ahead, watch me eat them. I inspect each and every one. 
• I wonder if those penguins that live in the Arctic and have to survive debilitating snowstorms while sitting on their young, get pissed at kangaroos who hop around in the sun all the time and have a built-in pouch for their kid.
• Who the hell is Justin Bieber and why is he the opening "act" for the new We are the World recording? 
• Tink is always stressed about undies being "stuck in her bum". I worry that she will never learn to wear a thong and have inappropriate underwear lines.
• I don't know what it is, but when my students are really rowdy at school I play A Fine Frenzy's "The Minnow and the Trout" and they immediately calm down. It's like a lullaby. Even my tough boys sing like girls until it's over. 
• I think about so much random stuff that I worry that my brain wasn't wired properly. Oh well, I'm good entertainment at parties usually. 

The End! 

Life and Tampax....

At a recent In-Service meeting, we were encouraged to write down our life's "mission statement".  They gave us two full pages in which to construct this mantra by which to live your life.  My esteemed colleagues were making fun of me, because I already have one and it doesn't require two pages, but one simple line.

To be happy, but not at the expense of others. 

How, you might ask, did I construct such gloriously written words?

Very simply, I thought about it.  And thought about it. And so on....

I am sure, if you are are reading this, you have gathered enough personal information about me to know that I do a lot of thinking about a lot of frivolous stuff.  I am overly emotional, moderately egotistical and search for the meaning of life, often, in Tampax commercials. 

I like to live my life like a dramatic movie montage. One where the boy and girl run through the rain holding hands while the orchestra swells to a dramatic climax. One where the mother dries her daughter's tears after an incredibly trying day at school and says the most perfect words at the most perfect time.  Usually, my life turns out like a comedic horror flick, with two naked anklebiters running around the house waving my tampons like swords.

But I digress...back to my mission statement.  I have one, because I had lost way of my life and wanted to be able to tell Pink and Tink how to appropriately run theirs. To tell them that life isn't a dramatic montage where the boy gets the girl, and even if he does, she usually has her period and he doesn't get her anyway. 

My main goal for Pink and Tink is for them to happy.  Right? Isn't that what we all want for our children? But not the kind of happy where they've been overgifted into it, or overpraised or overcompensated for their parents' shortcomings.  And not a happiness that comes from watching others fail at something we so desperately want to win.  Not "reality t.v." happiness.  But, happiness that didn't come at the expense of others.  Happiness that is generated from within and can only benefit those without. 

How am I going to accomplish this? I have no idea. Not a clue.

But, I will start by encouraging them to sing loudly and often, with their eyes closed and arms flung wide open if that's what makes them happy. I will encourage them to run, even if it's like a girl, and feel the crazy wind messing up their perfect hairdos. I will encourage them to love even if it's not returned and to give kindness, even if it is absent from those around them.  I will encourage them to laugh when life is funny and even when it's not...as long as they are laughing "with" and not "at".

And to use my tampons as swords as long as it means they've got an imagination to live in.