Who We Are

I was thirteen the first time I realized people could be someone completely and utterly different than what I knew them to be. It was the first time I realized people were capable of actions opposite their personality.

That year the board game Scruples was widely popular. Scruples is the board game in which players ask each other ethical questions. The object of the game, to rid your hand of all its cards, can be obtained by carefully asking the other players questions in which you foresee they'll answer in your favor.

It was the Sunday before Christmas and as tradition, my family gathered to celebrate. Dinner was long over, presents had been ripped open, and coffee brewed in the kitchen. Someone had brought Scruples, and like flies on honey, my family was on it!

The game came down to two players, Great Aunt Marie and Uncle Jer. Everyone, everyone wanted Aunt Marie to win.

My Great Aunt Marie was one of the most amazing women I have ever known. Aunt Marie was worldly. She traveled everywhere and my young years could never hear enough about where she was headed to next. Aunt Marie was proper and therefore, you always practiced your best manners around her. However, if you slipped up, she was quick to smile at you behind her hand and overlook it. Aunt Marie was independent. Her husband died before I was born, but I never once saw Aunt Marie not do whatever it was she wanted because she was without him.

By the time we played Scruples that night, Aunt Marie was close to eighty years old and as feisty as the day she was close to twenty. My Uncle Jer, always one looking for win, thought he had the game in the bag when a question reading, "Would you pose nude in a popular magazine for money?" came his way. He needed a no answer. Smugly, he asked the question to Aunt Marie.

Plain faced, without hesitation, she looked him square in the eye and replied, "Yes."

As Uncle Jer threw down his cards and tossed back his head in laughter, and the rest of my family hooted and hollered, I stole a glance at my Aunt Marie. With her family erupting in laughter and shouts of protests, she was as still as the freshly fallen snow. I looked at her. And I believed her.

It was in that moment I understood that this proper, worldly, proud, independent woman... one often dressed up in pearls... would shed her clothes for all to see. I wasn't shocked by her possible actions, I was shocked that she could be so different than the woman I knew.

The next time I came to understand that was under far different circumstances.

Twenty-four hours after my husband was arrested, the phone rang. The caller ID told me it was the police, and I remember thinking it was going to be an officer.

Cautiously, I answered and the phone clicked and static buzzed over the line. When my husband croaked a hello, I hardly recognized his voice. It was much somber than I remembered and far away and slower and far less confident.

I thought he was going to tell me when he was coming home. It was very late and into his second night away from us. I asked him what was going on.

He sighed the most tremendous sigh I'd ever heard him sigh and then as he began to tell me the extent of what had happened. Words came out. The phone continued to click and static continued to buzz. as the conversation was being recorded. I tried to ask questions, but was often cut off, sometimes by my own stupor.

When he told me what he was charged with and the amount of counts he was charged with, a different version of him relayed that information. The man I knew was good, one with a sense of morals, but this man... he had none.

After only a few minutes, just long enough for me to discover I'd been married to a man with a side I did not know at all, capable of actions unimaginable; the police officer cut the conversation off and the line went dead. And to me, the man I knew, the man I married was dead, too. He vanished after such a short conversation.

The girl who heard all that, I no longer am. Overnight, I became someone I never knew I was capable of being. Being an only parent has propelled me to places within myself I did not know existed.  People remark to me often, "I don't know how you do it." My answer is always the same, "You would, too." For one never knows what they are capable of, until presented with the circumstances.

We are often told that we can be whatever we want to be and that we can do whatever we want to do. We are told we are capable of anything. This is true, I still believe it. But maybe next time, I won't be so surprised by it.

Enough is Enough

Like most red-blooded Americans of the year 2012, I take pleasure in Facebook. I have since the day my best friend, Jen, sent me an invitation to join. Within two hours of joining, I had sent her an email stating, "Thanks for the new addiction."

To me, there is nothing better than staying in touch with friends and family across the country with the simple click of a mouse. Nothing better than "seeing" long lost friends and knowing how they are now. I enjoy the status updates, the pictures of children growing, silly videos, and jokes passed along to become part of the day's Newsfeed. Some days, that Newsfeed is better than the news on my local TV station, and news which I often find myself caring more about.

Facebook is, quite simply, a marvelous invention.

But, for the love of all that is mighty and powerful, Facebook is currently making me nuts.

Last night, the Chicago teachers went on strike.

And Facebook blew up. Status updates, links to articles, and pictures have been posted every hour since. People are so very angry about this. People from both sides of the issue are so very angry and each have their reasons to be.

I have always been a person who believes the old adage, "To each is own," meaning we are all entitled to our opinions and we need not agree, but we need to respect each other for it. Trust me, there are many, many... many... opinions out there I do not agree with at all. Some of them make my stomach turn. But, I always remind myself that the glory of this country is that we each are allowed to believe what we wish.

Where I draw the line with acceptance is when people become offensive. So, here is where I get on my soap box and shout it to the people...

What disgusts me most in this whole mess (besides the people "in charge" who are "running" the show like a bunch of spoiled brats screaming for their mothers to buy them a Walmart rollback special) is the ridiculous argument that children are missing their education.

Really?! Surely these people must know that the LAW requires school to be held for 180 days of the year. And just like when school is cancelled for a snow day, these days will be made up. Not one child will miss a day of public school education because of the teachers' strike.

These must be the people who have forgotten how much learning goes on OUTSIDE the classroom in the museums, parks, nature trails, restaurants, libraries, movie theaters, and yes, even office buildings, around this great country of ours. They must have forgotten all the quality time they spent with their children over the weekend and the summer and on school holidays exploring and conversing and learning and growing as a family.

I'm wondering if they remember that public school is not a glorified BABYSITTER. It is not a place children are sent just so their parents can put in a day at work or go to the salon to get their hair done. It is not a place of convenience.

I'd like everyone, on either side of the argument to learn these terms: SB7, Students First, Michelle Rhee, comprehensive school reform, evaluations linked to student achievement, student teacher ratios, and very most importantly, the term FAIR. It is high time more eyes are opened to what sweeping, radical changes are being proposed to public education.

The Chicago Public School teachers did not wake up today and decide to make everyone's lives miserable. They did not conspire behind the dumpsters to rob children of learning. They did not hold secret meetings in the teacher's lounge about how they'd love to stick it to everyone because they deserve bigger, fatter paychecks more than anyone else.

Actually, I'll bet some of them cried this morning. I'll bet many of them are scared out of their minds because their livelihood hangs in the balance. I know they wish they would start tomorrow in front of their most favorite people of all... their students.

What really happened is they stood up for their rights. They are standing up and putting their feet down because they do not want to be treated unfairly anymore. Because when they are treated unfairly, the children fail to receive the best education they deserve. They did what we are allowed to do in this country, just as we are each entitled to our opinion. And for their actions, I am proud to be a teacher.

Surely, everyone remembers that this is a lesson we all teach our children. Stand up for yourselves.

How quickly we forget.

Put It on the List

I like lists.

No, scratch that.

I love lists.

Making a list is my organizational tool. I am very orderly and appreciate everything in its place. Tasks, well, they don't seem to have a place, a nook, a cranny, a spot for me to put them, so I put them in a list.

Currently, I have five lists surrounding me. One for what to get at Target. One for phone calls to be made. One for "new things we want to do this summer", made with my children. One of quotations to think about, reflect about, write about. One for things I need to get done before the first day of school.

There's always a list on my desk at school. I make lists on my calendar. There's a list on my blog post screen of possible things to write about. You might even find a list on my hand of things I absolutely, totally must remember to do. Then there is the endless list in my head, but let's not talk about that.

I've been known to buy a pretty pad of paper, knowing it will only be used for list. Or a pen because it will  write a list in some pretty color or cross off in another.

I never number the list. It gives a sense of importance to tasks or items or things and if it is going on my list, it is all of the same importance. Sometimes I use bullets. But that is really just because I like the term, bullet. Me, the, "let's all put down our guns" person. Ironic.

I cross off when the things are done, over, completed, finished. I never use a check mark. Check marks imply "bad", but I am a teacher. Check marks are given to bad papers and bad kids. Not to lists that you've accomplished.

Accomplishing a part of the list is similar to finding Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. (Given that comparison, clearly I need to get out more.) It provides a feeling of satisfaction, a kind of do-it-yourself pat-on-the-back. Some days, it might just be all you've got.

There is rarely a list I create that accomplishes every single item. The tasks carry over to new lists. They are shuffled about, maybe even reworded. This is often hindered because besides being a list maker, I am also one the world's biggest procrastinators. If someone made  list of the world's worst procrastinators, I'd make the top twenty. Ok, maybe top fifty. The two descriptors contradict one another... list maker, procrastinator. One implies you will do things and one implies you probably won't. It is a fine battle waged within myself each day to keep one from defeating the other.

There isn't a time in my life that I can recall not making a list.

So, when we realized my ex-husband would definitely be going to prison, I made a list.

There was a six month time frame between his arrest and his leaving for prison. That time was used to prepare my children for Daddy leaving. My son would turn two just a week before his departure and my daughter was four. How do you explain to such young children that there is only so much time before their Daddy will be gone? I could think of nothing else but to make a list.

The list was entitled "Our List of Fun Things to with Daddy". Together, we made a list of every possible thing to do before he left. They ranged from simple to elaborate and everything in between. There had to be thirty things on the list... from "go ice skating" to "eat pancakes" to "visit Legoland" to "read all our favorite books" to "have a birthday party for Reid". Anything could be put onto the list. We promised to try and accomplish them all.

We spread them out onto a calendar, in hopes that our four year old might grasp an understanding of time.

There's no point in waiting until the end of this post to inform you... it doesn't.

As things started being crossed off  list, my anxiety grew. Crossing off things no longer gave me a sense of accomplishment, it gave me a sense of fear. It didn't allow for transferring its items to another list. It didn't allow for procrastination. It was meant to be final, and I'd never made a list like that before.

We continued with the list. We decorated "Daddy Boxes" with photo boxes for the letters and pictures he'd send while he was away. We ate at their favorite restaurants and went to the zoo. The children laughed and smiled and created some sort of memory in their tiny brains that had Daddy wrapped up in them. It was all I could want for them.

Eventually, no matter what list you've made, the law, just like being deployed or death, comes for you. There was no more time left for the list. It was over.

We saved the list and tucked it inside my daughter's "Daddy Box". Her memories of that six month time period and of crossing things off the list is more vivid than my son's. He seems to remember jumping out of an airplane with his Daddy. His sister tries to correct him; she'll say, "No, Reiders, we went to Red Robin with Daddy" or something of the sort, but he won't hear it. No matter, what truly remains from that time and from that list is the feeling that they are loved completely by their Daddy. That can not be put on a list.

I Am a Teacher

When I was seventeen, I told everyone what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I wanted to be a teacher.

Now, my seventeenth year as a teacher approaches.

As this year came to an end, I spent a lot of time reflecting my career decision made so long ago when I was an entirely different person.

This past year was probably the most difficult of my career. The world of education is changing, dramatically and rapidly. Gone are the days when the general public respected and admired teachers, as they've been replaced with sentiment that teachers are lazy and overpaid. Gone are the days when learning when was the most important thing happening in a classroom, as they've been replaced by endless standardized tests. This year, I saw education get ugly and I did not like it one bit. I saw how "the powers that be" have a hold on what is happening to education as I knew it.

And though they think they have a hold on everything, they really don't. They have yet to reach that special thing all teachers know about, and only teachers know about. That moment when the latch of your classroom door clicks, and it is you and your students and your subject and the magical moments of learning occur.

Okay, okay, maybe true magical moments only happen once in awhile and not every single day, but there is magic within the walls of a classroom. There are people learning, sharing, growing, changing, laughing, and being in there. There is happiness and joy and heartache and struggle and wonder in there. There is life in there.

I remember when I almost left that life for good.

My husband was arrested on a Thursday. I did not go back to school on Friday. Or Monday. Or Tuesday. In fact, I'd set my mind not to go back. At all.

By Friday, my husband's arrest was in the newspapers and broadcast on one local news channel. It was entirely humiliating.

I have always been a teacher who shares her personal life with her students. They knew my children's names and birthdays and funny stories about them. They knew my favorite colors and books and the high school I'd graduated from. They even knew some stories from my days in eighth grade. Sharing things about my life outside of school had always been my choice. I believed it showed the students that teachers were, for lack of a better explanation, real people. We weren't people who slept in their classroom and ate breakfast and dinner in the cafeteria. Sharing my life with them opened me up to them and in turn, often opened them up to me.

After the arrest, I stayed home for many days. During those days, I'd find myself looking at the clock and noting what period of the day it was at school. I'd think of what students were in my class at that moment and what they'd be doing and saying and learning. More often, I wondered what they were thinking.

I was in close contact with several good friends at school, but had been incredibly too frightened to ask what anyone... adult or pre-teen... was thinking concerning my personal life. It was most definitely shocking and something to talk about.

Without going into great detail, my husband's arrest left me pondering the entire teaching profession. His arrest took something sacred about teaching away from me. Teaching is an art about relationships and knowledge and the power of those two things coming together to, well, sometimes, move mountains. This art is one you work at every moment and you never want to let slip away. It also opened my personal life in the rawest way for everyone to dissect.

I did not think I could ever face a school again. You see, school had always been a safe place for me. I knew where I stood with the administration, other teachers, and most importantly, with the students. With my personal life in an upheaval, I assumed my school life was, too. Soon, several things would happen that would tell me exactly where I stood.

When you are absent from school, you still must make lesson plans and grade and keep the fine cogs of your classroom machine running. So, because of that, one early morning in the beginning of my absence, I found myself at the backdoor of my school. I met two of my friends and gave them some plans for my classroom. They pressed an envelope into my hands. Without opening it, or them saying anything, I knew what was inside. Near tears, I quickly hugged each friend and dashed to my car. I barely made it around the corner before I had to pull over. With tears streaming down my face, I lifted the card out the thick enevelope and read the kind, positive and thoughtful words from my teacher friends. They wrote encouraging, loving things. In my lap, over eight hundred dollars of their own personal money had fallen.

I knew where I now stood with the teachers.

Still contemplating my job and my life, I continued to stay home. One morning after dropping the kids off at the sitter, my cell phone rang. An unfamiliar number flashed on the caller ID. Puzzled and slightly leary, I answered. A familiar voice said hello.

It was my principal. My arms stiffened and I braced myself for what he might say. Similar to the soothing sound of a placid river, his voice began. He spoke slowly, steadily and firmly. He told me he'd heard I planned not to return to school. He told me I could not do that. Without judgement, he stated, "Sherri. Now, you need to come back here. You are going to hold your head high. You have done nothing wrong and we are your family. You need to do this for your children." He then told me he expected to see me back in my classroom in the next few days. Sobbing, I answered that, yes, I would come back. How could I not have answered him that way? He spoke to me like he would his own daughter. He filled me up with safety and warmth.

I knew where I now stood with the administration.

Several more days went by and I scrambled to put my tattered personal life into some kind of order. I was almost sure I was going to go back to school to be there for the last few days. By that point, I'd received emails and cards and phone calls from many teachers and staff letting me know it was "safe". But, I had absolutely no idea what the students were thinking or how they felt. I worried about making them uncomfortable and confused. I worried that the magic had been lost.

One evening, I talked to a friend who shared the same students as me. Towards the end of the conversation, she sighed and said, "So, a student said something to me today." She hesitated before speaking again and my heart filled with panic.

She went on to tell me this: one of my most naughty (and most favorite) students had come up to her at the end of class. As the other students scrambled out of her classroom, he shuffled his feet and with his head hung low, stood waiting to talk to her. She asked him what was up. With reservation, he said, "Um, I wanted to ask you something. Something about Ms. Hope." She tensed up a little, not really knowing what he might ask... nor how she might answer. She encouraged him to go ahead and ask.

Awkwardly stumbling over his words, he said, "Well, is all the stuff they're saying in the news and everything everyone is saying... is it true?" He lifted his eyes to meet hers as he waited for her answer.

She told him it was.

Then, he let out a huge, loud sigh and bluntly declared, "That. Is really. Fucked up."

Just like that. Plain as can be. It still makes me smile today.

You see, that is my students. They are honest and raw and funny and bold and kind and caring. They are alive and breathe such life into me every single day. This student's blunt account of what my personal life had become was the final straw in my decision to return to school.

And, I am so entirely grateful that I did.

This post is dedicated to every single one of my students. Each of you have touched my life. You keep me young and happy... even when I seem to have lost all patience with you. You make me laugh and think and you inspire me to keep learning. Thank you for keeping that magic inside my classroom and safe from anyone who might try to take it away. Most importantly, you make me very, very proud. May the light of knowledge never leave you.

The Broken Ones

The other morning I woke up and went about my morning routine. I am a very routine oriented person, sometimes to the point of boring. My morning routine involves coffee, taking the dog out, and checking email, Facebook and Pinterest. (If you haven't taken up that obsession yet, it is probably best not to.) Everything was typical and I thought that. The last pin I looked at on Pinterest was a pretty pale and yellow, almost airy, one that reads, "Do something good today."

I'd pinned it several weeks ago as a reminder that each day holds that possibility. It's an important thought, one we too often forget. We all get caught up in our routines and miss opportunities to do something good, beyond what we'd normally do.

However, that morning, the pin did nothing but annoy me. It didn't inspire me, make me smile... it made me want to delete it. It was a "mocking-pin" that morning.

You see, as soon I pried myself away from the computer, we were on our way to visit my ex-husband. He has spent the last two years in prison. That pin... well, it mocked what I was about to do. Drive for hours, enter a prison with little more than my car key and ID, be patted down, asked numerous questions, watch the same be done to my children, be led into a hopelessly dismal, institutional room and sit for four hours with a man who'd turned my world completely upside down. If that wasn't "doing something good", I didn't know what was.

In some other post, I'll explain our visits in length. But for now, understand that it was MY choice to take the children to visit their father. It is MY belief that, whenever possible, children need both parents' love and  guidance to live happy, productive lives. Because of MY choices and MY beliefs, we visit.

So, in annoyance, I gathered the last of the necessities and piled the children into the car. Still stewing about that pin as we pulled into a gas station not far from our house, I put the car in park and noticed a junky car pull into the pump next to me. The man sat in his car, just sat holding the wheel, as I went inside to pre-pay.

By the time I came out of the store, he was out of his car. He called out, "Ma'am. Ma'am." (For the record, I hate being called ma'am.) I ignored him and kept walking back to my car with purpose. He called out again, "Ma'am. Can you please help me? Can you please put some gas in my car?"

Furious. That is the only word to describe my feeling at that moment. I thought to myself, "Good Christ, mister, you are asking the wrong person for money. I am an only parent. In fact, I am headed to a prison! The little money I have is going to get there and back, with enough for a Starbucks treat along the way. I hate when people ask me for money... mainly because I don't have any. Seriously, why are you asking me?"

Aloud, I said, "No, I don't have anything." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hands go up, lift his derby hat off his head, and be pulled through his thick brown hair in desperation. For a second, I ignored it all.

As the car began to fill with gas, the sun shone through the back windows and I glanced at my children in the back seat. They worked together, setting up the portable DVD player and arranging their toys bags. I tapped the window with my key and they both looked up and smiled at me. It was then I heard that voice, the one inside that guides me through everything. It asked, "What if they needed gas?"

"Damn it all to hell," I stated.

My friend Jen once explained to me how she can not look in any animals' face without seeing the face of her beloved dog, Angus. Her explanation has stayed with me, as I realize I feel the same way about animals... and now about my children. In others' faces, I sometimes see my own children and therefore, feel more compelled to react to well, whatever the circumstances may be.

I climbed back into the car, reached into my wallet, and dug out a five dollar bill. There went my Starbucks.

Easing out of the car, I searched the gas station for the man. He wasn't at his car, or anywhere close. Finally, I located him, across the side street, pacing near my favorite pizza place. I observed him for several minutes. He was clean and somewhat well dressed, as if he'd been out for the night. He was handsome and completely out of place, pacing, lifting ashtrays and scouring the ground for loose change. I just watched him and felt worse than I'd felt all day.

He made his way back to the station and I called out to him. "Sir. Sir." (I wonder if he hates to be called sir.)

He came towards me, with a look of slight confusion on his face. As the he moved, the sun no longer made a shadow on his face, and for the first time, I looked at it. His face, his eyes... were broken.

I stretched out my hand and he reached for the bill as I said, "It's all I have. It will only get you a gallon of gas." I turned away as he thanked me and called out with sincerity, "Bless you, bless you." I ignored him and went back to the details of leaving for a long drive.

Inside the car, I turned to face my children. My daughter asked what I was doing out there. I told her that man needed some money for gas, so I gave him a little bit. She asked why he didn't have any money for gas, and I explained that sometimes, people just don't. She cocked her head and replied, "Well, that was a good thing to do, Mama." Ah, I felt like a shit.

Reaching for my seat belt, my eyes made contact with the man's eyes. He stood beside his car, waiting for the gas to pump, looking at me. His eyes were pale blue, clear, his face was full of color and bore the slightest smile, the corners of his mouth turned only slightly upward. His gaze transfixed me for a moment, as only one word played in my head. Broken.

He raised his hand in thanks, and I acknowledged with a smile and wave and then drove away. I will never forget that face. Ever.

I'd seen broken faces before. They've been in my classroom, on the subway, in the prison, and in the reflection of the mirror. People get broken, just like toys and furniture and bicycles. They are broken for various reasons and most likely, do not desire to stay broken. They want help and understanding and compassion and guidance. Most of the time, as with this man,... or maybe with you and me...we don't know what makes them broken. But they are, and they need something to fix them. It takes more than glue to fix them. It takes more than patience and knowledge and kindness to fix them. It takes more than "doing something good today" to fix them... but that's a start.

There isn't a broken face that I won't see my own in. And therefore, there isn't a broken face I won't help... in some way. Ever.

This post is dedicated to Shannon, who served me a reminder.

It is also dedicated to that man with the handsome, broken face. I hope that tank of gas got him some place good.

"After. After."

In the late 1980's, I must have watched The Karate Kid hundreds of times. Back then, my ceaseless viewing could partly be blamed on the fact I was a preteen, eager to learn fashion and ways to "woo" boys from "Ali- with an i" and one delighted with the chance to ogle Ralph Machicco... again. But, it could also be blamed on how mystified with Mr. Miyagi I was.

Mr. Miyagi came into my life at a crucial point, adolescence. In adolescence, one should be exposed to life's greatest lessons hardly recognizing that exposure. It is almost as if those life lessons lay dormant until needed.

After my husband was arrested, I greatly needed Mr. Miyagi's lessons.
I'm not exactly sure how long I sat at the top of my stairs after the police officer closed our door. That time was spent in utter disbelief. At some point, I remembered one of Mr. Miyagi's lessons.

"Breathe in, breathe out. And no scare fish."

With several deep cleansing breaths, I rose and went to tell our family and friends what had just happened. I had to chose my words to convey the events that had just played out very carefully because this was certainly a very scary situation.

No one I'd ever known had been arrested, taken from their home... led away with absolutely nothing said, other than, "You need to come with us." When I finally managed to start making phone calls, each voice on the other end of the line quaked and asked for everything to be repeated, twice.

My husband was an "All-American" type of guy. He'd never met a person who did not like him. He was handsome and charismatic and athletic. He had a smile that lit up a room. He was a husband, father, son, brother, teacher, coach, friend, and fraternity brother. To all those that knew him, he was the guy they liked to be around, the one that made them laugh, and the one who'd never do anything wrong.

His arrest stunned every single person told. Everyone was frightened, no matter what words I used, but my calmness and sensibility, thanks in part to much "breathe in, breathe out", evoked the same in others. I continued to make phone calls and proceeded to read everything I could on the Internet about being arrested.

By dark, my sister was with me. Soon, my parents would arrive with my children. They had no idea they were coming home to a home without Daddy. I discussed what to tell my four- year-old daughter and my very wise sister stated, "Well, you have two choices. You can lie or you can tell her the truth." Knowing lying had brought this entire mess upon us, I opted for the truth.  Finding the right words to explain a father's arrest to a four-year-old is nearly impossible. Smiling ever-so-slightly, I remembered Mr. Miyagi.

When, Daniel asked him, "Hey, where did all these cars come from?" He replied, "Detroit."

Keep it simple. 

She wasn't in the door long before she started asking where Daddy was. Sitting on the floor with her, I explained that Daddy had done something very bad, that adults aren't supposed to do. I explained he was going to have to live with the police for awhile. I kept it as simple as I could. 

As far as tears and heartache, it didn't matter. As far as how these carefully chosen, simple words would shape our future, it did matter.

Numerous people have asked me, "How did you do that? How did you tell everyone, how did you get the words out?"

I can only answer as Mr. Miyagi did when he karate chopped beer bottles off his truck, "Don't know, first time." Sometimes, what you need to do, you just do.

Hours went by, and I still knew very little about what he was to be charged with. I knew not the enormity of his crime. Late at night, his phone call finally came and out of this wonderful man's mouth, came the severity of what he'd done. I listened to him, but heard The Karate Kid.  At that point, my husband became two people to me. I heard Sense Kreese's words:

"Mercy is for the weak... An enemy deserves no mercy."

I wanted to slam the phone down. I wanted to scream and wail and punch walls. I wanted to lock my doors and never let him back in the house. I wanted him to sit in a cell and rot. I wanted to hate him.

But, I couldn't and I didn't. And, I won't.

It is also said in The Karate Kid, "You trust the quality of what you know, not the quantity." I knew my husband as a good man. I knew all his most wonderful qualities and they far outweighed this one terrible thing he'd done. And, I didn't really want an enemy. Enemies bring too much negativity into life. There was too much negativity in our lives. I could not allow it.

Late that night, not long after I'd finally fallen asleep, I awoke in a panic. I roused my sleeping parents and pleaded with my Dad to bring me to the police station. Begrudgingly, he did. I brought my husband clean clothes and a picture of our children.

Are you confused?

Mr. Miyagi said this:

"Better learn balance. Balance is key. Balance good, karate good. Everything good. Balance bad, better pack up, go home."

For the rest of my life, I was going to need to learn to balance the two people my husband had become. I was going to have to balance my life around this terrible thing that had happened. What I envisioned as we drove to the police station was the man I'd known, alone and terrified. In my mind, he still had duties and obligations to fulfill to myself and, most importantly, to his children. The clothes and picture, I wanted them to give him strength in order to do that.

That trip to the police station at one o'clock in the morning was the only time I put myself in the same place as his crime.

After that, we had a long, long road ahead of us. Trust me, there have been numerous times between now and then I have wanted nothing more than to "Sweep the leg". It is a gruelling journey, but one that has sincerely taught me Mr. Miyagi's most important lesson of all:

"First learn stand. Then learn fly. Nature rule, Daniel-san, not mine."

This post is dedicated to my mother. She is my Mr. Miyagi.

An Assignment

I despise being assigned homework. The irony that drips from that statement is too much, I know... a teacher who hates doing homework, but it is true. So when I was assigned homework by my daughter's teacher, in all honesty, I was less than thrilled. In perfect six year old pitch, she nagged me about it all week. And, of course, I waited until the last minute to complete it. 

My daughter was the "Can Do Kid" of the week. She had many things to do while being showcased for the entire week. My assignment was to write something about my daughter that the teacher could read to the class. Below is my assignment. Feel free to give me a grade.

Dear First Graders,                            February 2, 2012

In our house, we love big words. We strive to learn new words. We try very hard to learn new words.  We play word games, and we challenge ourselves to use big words in our conversations. This letter will teach you a few big words as it teaches you about my favorite daughter, Payton.

Payton is very logical. One of my favorite stories to tell about her shows just how reasonable she is. One day, I told her  that Reid, her brother, was my favorite son and she was my favorite daughter. She thought for a moment and said, “No, Mama, I’m your favorite moon.” She thought I’d meant sun, not son. She used the facts she knew about the sky and concluded if Reid was my favorite sun, she must be my favorite moon. Now, she knows about homophones, or words that sound the same, but are spelled differently.

Payton is very wise. Recently, I was about to start a new yoga class. I was nervous about trying something new. Payton looked at me and sighed and said, “Oh, Mama, just go and meet new friends. That’s what us kids have to do!” She is so smart! So, that is just what I did!

Payton is extremely conscientious. She will always do the right thing, and she knows the right thing to do in most situations. Once we drove past a once wooded area that had been torn down and cleared away so new stores could be built there. Payton declared, “Mama, we are just going to have to call Barack Obama so he can do something about it and get all the animals’ homes back!”

Payton is very sentimental. Just before Christmas, Payton came up to me one night, stuck a bow on my shirt and announced, “Mama, you are my present this year!” She is so loving and thoughtful and makes sure to let all the people in her life know how much she cares for them.

Payton is the light that shines in my heart. Without her, my life would be very sullen. It would be dark and sad. I adore my favorite daughter Payton and am elated that I could share these stories with you. It makes all mothers happy to talk about their children, just as it makes your mothers happy to talk about you.

I hope you enjoyed the stories and I sincerely hope you learned a few new, big words!

Happy Learning to you!

Fondly,


Sherri Hope