"Ten Years Ago"

*Over the last 3 years, there were numerous times I sat right here and willed the words to come to me. I longed to write, but was filled with such self-doubt and sadness that the words never came. For Mother's Day, this is my gift to myself. To just write and get it out. It's not very polished and there remains much hidden from it, but its a start. If I didn't start soon, the words were going to drown in me. It is true- sometimes you just have do something for yourself. 

"We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us." Joseph Campbell

Ten years ago.

2008.

In May 2008,  I was married. I owned a home. An almost 3 year old and 5 month old consumed my heart, my time, and most of my sleep.  I was a classroom teacher, still believing my career would mirror LuAnne Johnson's. I didn't have a Facebook or Twitter account, there was no such thing as Instagram, and my phone was not smarter than me. My camera was digital and I printed out nearly every single picture I snapped. My conversations weren't texted. My Netflix movies came in the mail, one at a time. Some of my favorite music was played on a MP3 player via Napster, but most I still skipped through CDs for.  I felt empowered by "change we can believe in" as Obama campaigned across America.

In May 2008, I was one year away from "that day in May." I was one year away from my life being completely and forever changed. I was one year away from the life that was waiting for me.

Sometimes, I think about that woman of May 2008  and how at that moment in time she thought the rest of her life would be. She thought that there would be a five, a ten, a twenty year anniversary. She thought she'd always have someone by her side to make decisions with, to talk things through with, to comfort her when anxiety consumed her. She thought  she would sell that home and buy a bigger one. She thought she might have more children. She thought she'd stay a classroom teacher for the remainder of her career. She thought all that technology would remain unchanged  until she could at least understand it. And she thought there was no other possible way that her life could be. It was a belief that if you asked her about then, she would adamantly support.

She never saw the change coming in her life. She never thought it would be something she couldn't believe happened to her.

Sometimes, I think about how that woman of 2008 planned a life that, in the end, wasn't meant for her. That woman had things planned for her life; its events fell into a logical sequence. And I think about how much that woman -so caught up in a plan that would never be- had somewhere along the way missed what her life was actually supposed to be.

The woman I am today found her strength in struggle and in the last 2 years faced her greatest struggles. A 13 year old and 101/2 year old consume my days and nights. I don't own a home. I am no longer a classroom teacher. Scrolling through Facebook or Twitter or Instagram is done on the daily. My phone is way smarter than me. It takes all my pictures. My conversations are held over text, Messenger, or email. Its often how I justify still calling myself a writer.  Netflix is the only TV I watch, my CDs are long gone, and I'd actually forgotten about Napster until writing this post.

The woman I am today  isn't one who has her life mapped out. There is no plan. I have absolutely no idea where we will be in 10 years.  I've learned that way of living no longer works for us. There is only a feeling. I know we will all be happy... and that is the life that was waiting for me. 

Ten-agers, Tampons, & Testicles

I have been a parent for a decade. A decade. Double digits. I am the parent of a ten-ager.

A ten-ager is a ten-year-old that acts, moves, sighs, rolls their eyes, stomps, and wails exactly like a teenager. Yet, they are still technically three years away from all that. They don't seem to be at all consciously aware of this fact. and their parents certainly aren't ready for all that.

In only  a matter of weeks, I have gone from a parent who chats about the moon and ice cream flavors and Lego building plans to a parent who chats about tampons and testicles and how to properly shave your armpits. Seriously. All three- very real- conversations in my house. Because that is what happens when you have a ten-ager. Your conversations turn a corner. They take a leap. Actually, they hurl you off a cliff into an abyss of unknown (and sometimes uncomfortable) language.

Here's how it happens.

One moment we are a family of three lackadaisically  watching TV together. Because, for at least a half hour, we have found something we can all enjoy. At this point, there are only a handful of shows we can all watch. TV does not cater to a family consisting of a 40-year-old mom, a ten-ager, and a 7- year-old boy. We watch shows like Bizarre Foods America, The Goldbergs, Naked & Afraid (the 7- year-old is often kicked out of the room because he cannot stop laughing at the butt shots), Dangerous Grounds, and The Brady Bunch. That's about it. At one time these shows were safe from the aforementioned conversation cliff dives, but when you have a ten-ager, all bets are off. Because, damn it, they start to actually hear all the things their ears have been immune to for a decade.

One night, we were watching our very favorite show, The Goldbergs. Sidebar- This show is genius. I am constantly saying, "Oh my gosh! I had that!" or "Oh my gosh! I remember that!" My kids don't know it, but I actually watch the show for ideas to embarrass them when they are real teenagers. Thank you, Bevvy Goldberg, best "smother" ever.

This episode had Bevvy loving Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No to Drugs" campaign. At the very end of the show, the actual Adam Goldberg 1980-something footage showed him pretending to hold a giant joint, which he labeled, "Not drugs, a tampon." It wasn't even said aloud, it was labeled on the screen and...

Years ago, I'd gone & taught my kids to read. Damn me!

They read it. Aloud.

And then, screeching voices. "Mama! What's! A! Tampon!"

Suddenly, I became very interested in the couch cushion. To no avail. They just repeated themselves, only this time a little louder. Sometimes they think I am actually deaf.

There were only two choices by this point. Lie or jump off that cliff.

I jumped. Well, more like lolloped. And bucked. And plummeted.

There is a fine line when answering children honestly. You have to give them just enough information for their age and yet not too much information for their age. I think I am pretty good at knowing where this line is. I can't remember all of my hasty answer, but whatever I said sufficed for the most part. My answer had key words, such as "girls, puberty, necessity." There was a calm after the storm, so to say. The kids looked at me, slightly doe-eyed. They peeked at one another, and hastily turned away.

Then my daughter asked, "Mama. How do you know when someone is in the puberty? Because I think there are some kids in my class in the puberty."

To that I simply said, "You don't put an article in front of puberty." Some nights, you just have no more answers for a ten-ager.

The next time a cliff-diving conversation came my way, I was (unfortunately) no more prepared.

This time we were contently watching Bizarre Foods America. This show has a little bit of everything- geography, nutrition, and the gross-out factor. Trekking through the deep south, Andrew Scott Zimmern discovered a quaint restaurant that served "legendary"lamb testicles.

And... you know what came next.

"Mama! Testicles! What's! That!"

Now, this question is really my fault. Yes, I am the mother of a boy. And I am a teacher. You'd think that we'd have covered all the body parts and their names. But, until that very moment, I realized we'd never mastered testicles.

So, I sighed that cliff-plunging-conversation sigh and said, "Well, boys have them, but girls don't. Testicles are the things (I KNOW) on the side of your peep. (I KNOW!)"

One eyebrow cocked, my son looked at me and said, "Those things are testicles? I call 'em my brains!"

Stifling laughter, I inquired, "Why do you call them that, Bud?"

Very matter-of-factly, he replied, "Well. I can't see my real brain. And I just think these are what my real brain looks like, so I call 'em my brains."

Some day... some day... he will know the irony of his statement.

Conversations with children, especially as the years creep by, aren't always neat and simple and wrapped up with a pretty bow. But, I firmly believe we all need to take the plunge and have them. As uncomfortable as I might be (possibly even near panic attack as when my ten-ager asked me to teach her to shave her armpits... but I am not recovered enough to write about that one) you have to put your best words forward and steer your own course down that conversation plunge. Kids, even the ten-agers who think they don't, need to have sound advice and the correct information given to them. If you're lucky enough, you'll get a sprinkle of humor with those conversations. Kids gain understanding, confidence, and moral direction even, and most of all, they know we are there and we love them, no matter what question they might have.

The Grind

Here it is. One of the greatest things about childhood. Summer vacation. 

We are officially 40 minutes into it. And, I have not one thing planned. Or scheduled. Or thought out. 

Over the course of the past few weeks, many moms and I have a conversation that went something like this:

Mom: "So, summer. It is almost here. What do you guys have planned?"

Me: (in a blind panic, thinking- What the hell? Summer? Already? I do not even know where the brochures or the camp flyers are! Did I recycle them? Crap.) "Oh, you know. We are still checking things out."

Mom: "Oh, good for you. We are all signed up for swimming lessons and art camp and sewing class and math enrichment class and the library reading program and space walks..."

Me: (Did she really just say space walks? Can people do that now? I really need to go through the recycle bin.) "Ok. Good. Sounds great! We will see you there. For sure!" (Shit. And a whole bunch of my other favorite swear words.)

And then I'd do something like the Walk of Shame from college all the way home mulling over in my head how much of a failure of a mom I was for not getting on the whole space walk thing. There were nights I'd lay awake tormented by my lack of signing up; my mind seized by thoughts of my children doomed to be adult failures because I did not sign them up for a summer camp or yoga class or origami in the park. 

At some point, my thoughts shifted. 

I do this thing. I try to do it at least once a day. I learned it from someone who told me to do it on the day of my wedding. Each day, at some moment- just an ordinary moment- I stop and take a  very deep breath and take in every single thing about that moment. I try to implant in my brain the things I see, the feelings, the sounds, the colors, the words- everything about that moment in time that will never be again. I do it because I truly want to remember the moments in life that matter. It makes me feel alive. 

For example, I did it today while we walked home in the pouring rain. Lugging all the leftover school supplies and paper scraps, my children walked in front of me partially hidden by a giant golf umbrella. Fat drops of rain slid off the umbrella. They skipped. Their shoulders touched and their worn out backpacks bumped behind them. They talked silly talk- the kind of silly talk only siblings can talk. The air was cool and echoed with their giddy little laughs. I wanted so badly to stop them and hug them and tell them to stay just like that. Forever. 

I don't know when summer became yet another thing in life to be scheduled. I remember my summers as a child. My mom had us in swim lessons and an occasional class, like mime. (Really, a local college offered mime classes for kids and on the last day you "performed" your mime act. Mine kinda sucked, truth be told.) Mostly, my summer was playing in the yard, playing in the house, playing with my friends, talking to myself (seriously did this a lot as a kid), reading book after book after book, looking for worms or ants or roly-polies, and coloring (maybe on the brand new cement driveway). It was filled with what people today might consider- a whole lot of nothing. 

And guess what? I absolutely loved each and every summer vacation of my youth. I would not trade those days for anything. 

A few weeks ago, we visited our cousins. During this visit, my thoughts about our scheduled- summer- to-be were solidified. Lazily talking with my cousin, mom of 4, the conversation once again turned to what our summer plans were. I sighed this extra long sigh and admitted to her that I had not yet signed up for anything. And then I went so far as to almost admit it... aloud, but she stopped me. She said, "I know. You just can't do the grind anymore, can you? Me either."

I should have jumped up and kissed her. That was exactly it. I could not- can not- do the grind anymore. For me, it is endless and taxing and exhausting. The grind sometimes causes me to not do that thing, where I take in a moment to remember forever. The thought of being so scheduled this summer was making me neurotic. And sad.

What I was really longing for- for me and my children were endless days in which daylight stretches into night. Hands are constantly sticky from gooey ice cream and neon Popsicles. Water-logged afternoons at the pool. Digging in the dirt and weeding around our flowers. Playing games in the driveway. Reading good books on the porch. Enjoying the days of nothing together before they are gone. 

Now mind you, two months into this summer vacation, I may be singing a different tune. But, there is always sangria in the summertime. Afterall, I have this theory that prohibition was actually ended by moms two months into a summer vacation who just couldn't take it anymore.

But, for now, I am off to design  and color a giant TARDIS so that my children can play Dr. Who and have adventures- of the summer kind. 

A Linguistic Autobiogaphy

            My fondest memories of language are of being curled up on the couch, snuggled into my mom and my younger sister listening to my mom read us a story. Growing up in a time when there were only 5 channels on the TV, rotary phones, and no computers in homes meant we read- a lot.  My mom read to us all the time- morning, noon, night- it did not matter. At a very young age, my favorite stories were from the Golden Book series; I loved the gold bindings, the vibrant drawings, and the fact that you could write your name in the front of the book.  The Poky Little Puppy was my very favorite and I would request it be read over and over… and over again. I drank in my mother’s prosody- her beautiful sweet voice; words flowing like a calm stream at times, rising like a rapid at others. I embraced the expressions I would copy later in life- “Now where in the world is that poky little puppy?” (Sebring-Lowery, 1) and marveled in the figurative language, “He ate up all the rice pudding and crawled into bed as happy as a lark,” ( Sebring- Lowery, 10)- remembering later how impactful a simile could be in a story I was writing.  I believe my own foundation of linguistic knowledge began with these memories; the memories of being curled up with my mom- being read to. I believe my acquisition of language continued to develop through literature- either being read to or from being a reader myself.

            In kindergarten, Ms. Brown, my tiny 90 year old teacher (maybe she wasn’t really 90, but she was old and to five year olds, anyone past the age of 50 is really old) taught us phonics. Obediently, we would mimic her pronunciation of the all the vowel and consonant sounds from thin books, similar to the popular Dick and Jane series. We practiced our short vowels and long vowels, our consonant blends, and our vowels diagraphs in a rhythmic pattern until we’d mastered the correlation between print and sound. Once I mastered this; a book was always in my hand. I went home and read every Golden Book in our house, crossed out my sister’s name in the front of any she’d claimed as hers and claimed them as my own. (This did not go over well, but that is a story for a different paper.) I was a proud reader.

            I read my way through grade school. Little House on the Prairie, Nancy Drew, and Ramona series were among my favorites. From the books in these series and others, my knowledge of semantics blossomed. “Even a small present was appreciated, because presents of any kind had been scarce while the family tried to save money so Mr. Quimby could return to school” (Cleary, 14). I acquired vocabulary when presented with words not found in every day  grade school conversation, such as appreciated and scarce. These words would one day become my own, finding their way into my conversations without me even realizing they’d gotten there.  I also acquired a broader understanding of the world around me. From the book, Ramona Quimby, Age 8, I found solace in a character whose parents had little to give her except a simple pink eraser, much like my parents who never flourished us with gifts because of their financial situation. I learned there were other families like mine, with one parent going back to school and making sacrifices because of it.

            By the time I was in sixth grade, I’d read a lot- a lot- of books. My verbal language was exceptional, my understanding of the world around me was as broad as it could be, but something was missing. I’d yet to find a book that made me love books. I’d yet to discover a  book that would encompass my whole being and stay with me forever. I’d yet to find a book that would change my life.

            That year my teacher, Mrs. Mundell, read us The Lottery Rose. This was the only (and I mean only) positive thing to happen in sixth grade. Mrs. Mundell, who was otherwise awful, read like a dream. Her voice was as fluid and soft as the flutter of a fairy’s wings. It rose and fell like a slight breeze through the trees. She read us The Lottery Rose every day after lunch and it completely hypnotized me. Irene Hunt’s tale of an abused little boy named Georgie and his beloved rose bush drew me into a world of beautiful syntax- where the words, phrases, and sentences had been composed in such a way they brought tears to my eyes. This book has stayed with me since I was 11 years old. It was the one that made me want to be a writer.

            Though I kept reading after sixth grade, I would not find a book that would stay with me until I reached adulthood. Between this time, I was acquiring language- developing it at rapid speed- through non-fiction text. Bombarded with journal articles, textbooks, magazines, and encyclopedias in high school and college, I read now to be able to communicate about the world around me with others.

The year I turned 18 was very important to me because I could vote. I am one of the countless Americans who consider this a rite of passage to adulthood. If I was going to vote for a candidate, I had to know about the candidates. I had to learn about Bill Clinton and George H. W. Bush and even Ross Perot. Everyone on Concordia’s campus (yes, I did my undergraduate program right here at CUC- which at that time was CURF, Concordia University River Forest) spent the first 3 months of school debating the election. Armed with information from Time, Rolling Stone, and probably even Cosmopolitan, I sat in the KCC discussing who the best man for the job was, where we thought our country was headed, and our hopes for its future. Siding with Bill Clinton who believed, “This is not about good government; this is about doing different things,” (Wenner, 1992)), I too believed our nation was on the brink of great things. Having acquired enough facts in our heads and passion in our hearts, motivated to change government- our discussions were lively, spirited- sometimes heated. And I loved it. It was here I developed my love of argument.

By the time I had my own classroom, I considered myself a reader, a writer, and a debater. All three roles played a distinct part in my classroom discourse. I read my very first group of students The Lottery Rose, hoping they would also love its literate beauty.  We discussed child abuse, gardening, friendships, and being a good person- sometimes all afternoon. When I taught eighth grade Language Arts, I shared passages from Al Gore’s Earth in Balance and we debated environmental issues. As the years went on, my classes would read such literary classics as To Kill a Mockingbird, A Christmas Carol, Flowers for Algernon, and Night. We would discuss social injustices, share moral viewpoints, and discover the power of being moved by a piece of literature together. Through readings of poetry, such as Langston Hughes’, “I, Too” and Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”, we’d develop our prosody. The countless non-fiction articles we’d read about research topics would broaden our knowledge of the world around us, so much so that I’d often hear students talking amongst themselves about immigration, war, the Holocaust- and how they felt about it. What more could a teacher ask for?

With each thing we read, our vocabulary would grow, too. The acquisition of new words- just as it was important in my educational career- became one of my main goals as a teacher. I must fill my students’ head… and hearts with new words. Whether it was me or the students highlighting, circling, locating new words- we’d practice their pronunciations, their meanings, and their usage until each word could be owned by the students.

With all of these things, behold, my students became sophisticated young adults, and I a stronger teacher.  Just as it happened while I sat on the couch listening to my mother read numerous stories, it happens again in my classroom. As ones’ language develops, ripens, strengthens- so does another’s.

Today, I still consider myself a reader, writer, and debater. There is nothing more satisfying than a book that stays with me- the words becoming a part of me- like those in The Red Tent, Unbroken or the many education articles I devour when I have the time to. There is nothing more satisfying than composing something whose words stay with someone else- my words becoming part of them. And still nothing gets my blood flowing like a lively debate over politics or social issues. I hope by the time I am 90 (like little old Ms. Brown) I can still refer to myself in this way.

Cleary, Beverly, and Alan Tiegreen. Ramona Quimby, Age 8. New York: Morrow, 1981. Print.

Sebring Lowrey, Janette. The Poky Little Puppy. Racine, WI: Western Publishing Company, 1942. Print.

Wenner, Jann. "The Rolling Stone Article: An Interview With Bill Clinton." Rolling Stone. 17 09 1992: n. page. Web. 16 Mar. 2014. <http://www.jannswenner.com/Archives/Bill_Clinton.asp&xgt;.

You Have to Hear This Story

Allow me to tell you a story.

There are many parts to it, but if you give it a chance, you'll see how they all link together.

My daughter was tardy to kindergarten every day. Every single day.

The irony of this is that I am a teacher. And for eighteen years, I've given detentions to students who are tardy to my class.

I did not even realize it was a problem until parent/teacher conference time came along. Her teacher handed me the report card and my eyes could focus on nothing but the attendance box. Under "Days Tardy" the number 36 had been boldly written as if the teacher had pressed her pen down ever so slightly more when entering it.

The teacher's mouth moved, sound came out, but nothing registered. I kept staring at that 36. Heat rushed to my face and my legs began to twitch. Certainly, she must have made an error because if my career in education had taught me nothing more- the teacher is always wrong.

Once my mouth opened, words stumbled out. First, inquiry- "Are you sure this is right?" Oh, she was. She kept very accurate records because the state requires her to keep such accurate records and it would be against the law for her to not report attendance accurately. Then, challenge- "Well, is this hurting her learning?" Long pause of silence. Not exactly. Moving onto, a plea- "If you tell me what she is missing, I will do it with her at home." No, absolutely not. Calendar can only be done in kindergarten. Until finally, shame- "I just don't know what to say. I am trying." A glare.

The truth of the matter was, I was trying. For my entire life, I'd sucked at mornings, seriously sucked at them. I was the kid who often had to be dragged out of bed with threats and demands and a few times- physically dragged out of bed. I was incorrigible until after 10... or 11. I waited until the last minute to do everything- shower, eat, brush my teeth- so much so that once I started driving, some tasks just got done at stop lights.  In college, I missed more than a few... more than  a lot... of my 8 AM classes, to the point that a visit to the dean's office was necessary. By the time my daughter was in kindergarten, being an only parent was still quite new to me. There I was, the girl who sucked at mornings, now trying to get a herself, 2 small children, a dog and a cat all ready for the day. (Ok, the cat doesn't really count, but he is one more living thing who took up moments in my mornings.) And, the bigger truth of the matter was- I still sucked at it.

My daughter being tardy to kindergarten became a bone of contention for pretty much the rest of the school year. There were days when everything went just right- picture the merry scenes in Snow White or Cinderella when all the little animals come to help- and we were all smiles and on time, but most days- most days were what my son would now call "epic fails." Someone was missing a sock, the milk spilled all over the kitchen floor, the dog ran away, I turned the alarm off instead of hitting snooze, traffic backed up for miles- whatever the matter, we walked in 5 or 10 minutes late many... many... more times that year. The teacher never got over it. In fact, I heard from other teachers at the school that she complained about it in the teachers' lounge. (Even more irony- I was the one being talked about in the teachers' lounge now.) Finally, one of my daughter's preschool teacher's told her, "You know. That mom is doing the best she can. There's more to it than you know."

But, you know, I don't think she wanted to know. She did not want to know my story. It bothered her immensely that we were late and missed the calendar activity every day. She took it personally, when, really it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. Our tardies were becoming part of my story.

My story was unfolding and shaping and ripening. Just like yours is.

Allow me to continue my story.

The other night I had the distinct privilege to attend a lecture given by Alex Kotlowitz.

In case you just heard crickets, Alex Kotlowitz wrote the award winning biography, There Are No Children Here. For one of my education classes many years ago, this book was required reading. We had to read other similar books including, Savage Inequalities by Jonathan Kozol and Among Schoolchildren by Tracy Kidder. There Are No Children Here so engrossed me, I read it in a day. The same happened with the other books. What so hooked me, what so moved me were the stories. Stories of people, some who lived not so very far away from me, yet seemed to live a million miles away from me. Their lives, their struggles, their hopes wove their wave into my heart. Because stories do that.

Alex Kotlowitz's lecture was about storytelling and how much it is fading from our culture. He spoke of how many people have stopped listening to other's stories, how maybe, they don't even care to know their story.

Could that be true? Have we become a society that no longer values its stories?

Sitting there, becoming downhearted, I thought of the world around me. That world you live in- the news you hear or see, the people you interact with, the things that bother you, the things that elate you- thought of all of it and how often examples of the lack of stories had been a part of it.

Just a few weeks before, I'd had one of those days as a teacher- a day with no plan. Really, it happens. You might be in between units or waiting for another round of testing to be over or stuck in a time of great attendance lows (think the days before winter or spring break). Moments before 130 students storm through your door, you find yourself with absolutely not one thing for them to do. For me, these are sometimes the times when the best lesson plan comes into play.

Common Core contains an oral speaking standard. By the time a child leaves public school, they should be proficient in public speaking. Therefore, teachers must provide ample instruction and opportunities for oral speaking. (For the record, this is easier said than done. And the next person who tells me teaching is so easy a monkey could do, I am going to assign them this task- teaching eighth graders about public speaking- and then sitting there while they do it- all 130 of them.)

But, I digress in my storytelling...

So, it is minutes before the 130 students ram their way into the school door's and I had a few thoughts. First, I'd been thinking lately how this year I feel like I don't know my students. There has been so much shift in education discourse that the student- the people- in front of us have been lost. Then, I remembered we hadn't done an oral presentation in a while. And finally, I thought it best to combine these two problems. So when my gifted class walked in I informed them they would be turning their personal narratives into a storytelling presentation.

They groaned. They moaned. They slammed their books and binders onto their desks and then they said, "Ok. How do we do that?"

So, I taught them about storytelling- what it is, how you do it, the best tips for it, shared examples of it (even one of my own) and gave them time to practice. All the while, it was never far from my thoughts, that this... was never going to work. 35 students had to get up in front of the class, no notes, and just... tell their story.

But the magical thing was, it did work. It worked so well that we laughed. We cried. We cheered... really for one student who gave such compelling tale of his experience with a kindergarten bully, we cheered and gave him a standing ovation. We learned that one girl nearly drown and still fears the water, one girl felt the freest she ever has while zip-lining in Hawaii, one boy helped a homeless family in Mexico, and another boy had recently become a proud uncle.

The thing of it is without those stories, we might still only see that quiet boy who sits in the back and never adds to the discussion, the boy who never does his work, the socially awkward girl who doesn't really fit in, the beautiful girl who nobody thinks is smart, or the boy who constantly goofs around.

Without the stories in Alex Kotlowitz's biography, you might only see the young boys from the projects doomed to continue the cycle of poverty. Without my story, you might only see the mom who can't get her children to school on time.

And what of the numerous people who pass through our lives every day, the ones so easy to judge-that mom didn't show up at the grade school classroom party, or that guy from the office who always keeps his distance, or the people standing in an unemployment line, or the... people around us with stories to tell.

Everyone has a story. And everyone's story is worth hearing and knowing. But, let my students convince you because after that storytelling experience, they told me it was awesome, the best thing that had ever happened in school. Through their stories they had become a family. And to think, it almost never happened.

What if we never heard another person's story? What if we stop listening to each other's stories all together? What would we be then?

The Language of Me

My mother has so often and so fondly told the story of my first sentence it is embedded in my brain. Even though I was there and I said it, I have no actual memory of it. However, her recall is enough for me to feel as though I do.

We were outside one warm summer afternoon. My mother chatted in the backyard with our next door neighbor, Colette while I scampered about delighted by the vast yard and green grass tickling my feet. I was twelve months old.

Colette had two teenage sons, Donny and Ronny. As any teenage son will do, they often annoyed her with their mischievous antics. On this particular day, Donny had driven Colette to the point of grief and she hollered at him. Pausing my play, I turned, looked at the adults and said as clearly as this is typed, "Damn Donny, anyway." Colette, Donny, and my mom hooted with laughter as I had perfectly mimicked one of Colette's favorite phrases. (Some might also consider this sentence a prelude to all the swearing I would do later in life, but I do not.)

I have not stopped talking since.

My memories of childhood are laced with memories of conversation. My family was always talking. Always. My mother and grandmother sitting at my grandmother's kitchen table, steaming cups of hot tea in front of them, talking. My mother and her younger sister in her lilac bedroom, talking. My mother, father, and younger sister gathered around our dinner table each night, talking. My entire family- aunts, uncles, cousins- sandwiched in a living room or family room during the holidays, talking.

I thoroughly enjoyed the conversations of my youth. I loved the banter back and forth, the hushed tones when the topic became not one for young ears (like mine, always listening), the rise and fall of the voices, the words- big, long, fancy, hard to pronounce words or simple, sweet, musical words. I loved the hand motions and facial expressions matching the words. The hands in the air when someone was exasperated, tears in the eyes when someone was sad, the arms that would open for a hug when someone would hear happy news; I simply loved it all. I took it all in and let it fill me up. Conversation meant comfort.

Besides being part of conversations with my family, my language developed through play. My sister and I played our way through childhood. Barbies, Legos, house, school, church, dollhouse & restaurant were among our favorite pastimes. When playing, we "talked" for the Barbies, the Lego people, the pretend mom and daughter in our pretend house, the pretend teacher and students and pretend patrons at our basement restaurant. Each pretend person had a voice. I remember the stern tone for the teacher and the raspy-from-cigarettes tone for the cook at the restaurant. The dialogue grew more sophisticated as we grew. We mimicked the dialogue of TV shows we watched and of people we came across in real life. Our play was endless and thus our language developed greatly.

Having been talked to and read to all my life, grade school was relatively "easy". Therefore, I talked. A lot. At many parent/teacher conferences, my mother heard, "Sherri needs to stop talking to her friends." I didn't talk on purpose, I talked because I craved the interaction it brought.

Technology was a long, long way from smart phones, social media sites, and interactive video games, so my friends and I had nothing else to do but actually talk to each other. Face to face. Aloud. Every day. Therefore, because of language and the interactions I had with it, I became a social person.

By the time I was in high school, the phone was my favorite household appliance and it was the first time I remember discussing social issues. Through long... long phone conversations, I developed ways to articulate the beliefs I had in my heart and head. I learned one must support their beliefs with facts and therefore, I slowly became more interested in the world around me. I learned you could not just spew out emotional rants, but rather must argue with a sensible tone and a wise mind.

This knowledge and language development would deem very important in college. At Concordia, I was an outsider. My beliefs, words, and ideals were constantly challenged. My language was often considered offensive. It wasn't until my senior year of college that I realized I did not really know how to listen.

My senior year of college had enough room in my schedule that I was granted permission to take graduate level psychology courses. One course was a counseling course. With the exception of my education classes, it was the college class I learned the most in . I learned how to listen to people. I learned how to not just hear the words they were saying, but the words they weren't. I learned how to read their body language. I leaned how to ask them better questions, ones which would allow them to give me better answers. All of these things paved the way to better conversations and a better understanding of my role as a teacher.

I have to admit, part of the reason I became a teacher is because I like to talk. I am paid to talk. All day. I love it. Throughout my career, I have learned a teacher must have the perfect balance of simple and sophisticated language when speaking to their students. A teacher must be able to articulate the rudimentary steps in a process with a hint of challenging vocabulary so the student is always growing, always striving for that next bit of knowledge.

Early on in my career, I realized my students' language was... well, not very stellar. Many of my students lacked the knowledge of and appreciation for conversation. They also lacked vocabulary- they had no words. This is still true today.

It deeply saddens me at the end of the year when a student tells me, "Ms. Hope. You were like the only teacher to ever just talk to me. To us." I've heard it too many times.

From the first to the last day of school, I talk to my students. Sometimes I ask them what they had for dinner last night, sometimes I ask them what they did in a certain class, sometimes I tell them an anecdote about my own children. Other times, I share a news story with them and ask what they think of it. Or we talk about incidents that have happened in our school. Or we just talk about what celebrities they think are really cute. I really don't care what we talk about, I just want them to talk. I want them to feel that their voice has value. I want them to know that their words matter.

We also do weekly vocabulary challenges. The students are given ten words to learn on Monday. They have a worksheet with practice exercises that is due on Thursday. They are tested on the words on Friday. By the end of the year, my students are exposed to over 200 new words. (Admittedly, some of these words were "new" to me, too.) As we learn the words, I post them in pocket charts. They can see their learning. Their vocabulary worksheets are filed in their English Reference Folder (a folder kept in class which contains all the class handouts). The words are always available to them. For each and every writing assignment, the students must correctly use a certain number of Challenge Vocabulary words in it. Mid year, I start telling them the words they most often use (elated, dejected, gregarious, admonish, etc.) will not count for points. They must select other words, thus forcing them to expand their word usage. They all groan and gasp in horror, but they do it. However, this is not my favorite part of their vocabulary knowledge and development. My favorite thing is when students rush into class gushing, "Ms. Hope! So, I was reading my book last night and, Ms. Hope! There was a Challenge Vocabulary word in it!" or "Ms. Hope! When I was watching TV last night, they said a Challenge Vocabulary word!" My response is usually, "Get out of here! or No way!" But, nothing makes me more proud than that.

As for my future language development, I do not want to ever stop learning to be a better speaker, writer, and listener. I hope to always embrace new words and terminology. I hope my love of language is passed to my daughter and son. Maybe one day my love of language could be shared with college students- potential teachers and the next generation of students will come to appreciate this thing we do sometimes too little- talking.

The Best Day of My Life

Ten years ago this coming July, I got married. Let me tell you about my wedding day.

It was a day I waited twelve years for. Twelve years. That is a long time to wait. And that day was worth every second of the wait. I still think that with all my heart and I have been divorced for five years.

As for the planning and the details, I was anything but a bridezilla. I did not care so much about the color scheme or of flowers for my bouquet or about the center pieces on the dinner table. My bridesmaids could wear their hair up or down and the only requirement for their shoes was that they wouldn't hurt their feet after a long night of dancing. We had one thing we wanted our wedding to be- fun for everyone.

That year July 31st fell on a Saturday and I was overjoyed because that is both of my grandmother's birthdays. I couldn't have imagined a more perfect date to begin a new chapter of my life on.

It was a hot July day, but not one so hot that no one wanted to move. It is hard to recall everything I did that day leading up to the ceremony and reception, there are only snippets of moments lodged in my head. I remember slipping into my dress in the hotel room. It was absolutely simple purchased for less than one hundred dollars at a quinceanera store, bedazzled with a few sequins at the top and bottom. I remember taking a few pictures with my sister and a few of my bridesmaids before leaving for the banquet hall. Once at the banquet hall, I remember waiting in the bridal suite with all the bridesmaids, who were decked out in white satin blouses and long dark peach skirts, toasting with champagne and the chef who would soon cook our delicious meal. I remember watching every single guest come in the doors, as the bridal suite overlooked the parking lot. I remember being amazed as each person showed up, even though their reply card had told me they would, I just could not believe they had actually come- for our day. I remember being happy. Every single inch of my body, mind, and soul was in harmony.

When it came time for the ceremony to begin, I remember having to wait an extra few minutes because so many guests had come that more chairs needed to be set up. I was overly anxious to just go out there and see everyone. Then, just as the coordinator gave my parents and I the final nod to begin, a voice spoke to me.

Go ahead, snicker if you must, but a voice spoke to me. I heard it just as I'd hear you say something to me. My parents lifted their feet to begin the walk down the aisle and I momentarily pulled back wondering if I should actually listen to the voice.

It had said, "Do not go. Do not do it."

It was firm and loud and deep.

At that moment, I did not see or hear or feel anything else except for that voice. It engulfed me. And I panicked. My heart raced and my mind spun and I wanted to yell out for time to stop so I could think.

This probably lasted no more than 30 seconds, but it felt like much longer.

There was a part of me that nearly turned around, not quite understanding why, but today, I wonder was it the part of me that would someday become... me... right now. The girl who was going to be cheated on, see her husband led out of their home in handcuffs, divorced, left with two very small children... the girl who would be alone. Was she there that day, possibly ready to avoid the hurt and grief and sorrow?

But, instead, I shook the voice away and marched down the aisle, trying to make eye contact with every single person there so I would remember them forever... remember that day forever.

When I made it to the end of the aisle, I remember holding my husband's hand and it felt as it always did, warm and right. It swallowed mine up and eased my racing heart.

Our ceremony was brief, covering all the things a wedding ceremony does. It was invigorating to stand in front of all the people we loved and become a unit, a team, a family. I loved it. I loved saying my vows and promising them forever. There was not a moment during that ceremony I doubted what I was promising. When it was over and we were husband and wife, my entire faced ached from smiling so grandly.

The rest of the evening, the reception, was indeed the best night of my life. There was never a reception as fun as ours. Again, I remember only snippets of it as it passed so quickly. I remember being told it was time for dinner and looking around for a way to tell the crowd gathered for cocktail hour to move into the dining room. My cousin, whom I had babysat and now towered over me, grabbed me and lifted me high above his head so I could call out to everyone. And everyone stopped and looked at me. And they were smiling right along with me.

Taking the advice of someone (I now forget who it was that told me this), once dinner was served, I put down my fork for a moment and forced myself to pause and take it in. I breathed deeply and peered around the room, taking in each face of my loved ones, watching them smile and laugh and talk. I took it all in and filled myself up with that moment in time because it was the only time all the people I loved would be in the same room together and what it is more grand than that? And even though my marriage ended as it did, I still can feel that moment if I close my eyes.

We had given the DJ names of couples that were attending the wedding and he called out their names during dinner. They had to show us how to kiss and we'd repeat what they had done. This became a competition! I wish you could have been there to see the antics and the guests' creativity and competitiveness!

I remember the dance floor, always my favorite place to be at a wedding. Guests crowded our dance floor all night. All night. Friends "performed" "Rapper's Delight" and my cousins did the dance to "Bye, Bye, Bye". It was like a show! I remember laying down on the dance floor at one point, so exhausted, and asking the DJ if it was all over. He laughed and told me I still had a long way to go. I remember jumping up, not missing another beat.

We posed for countless candid pictures, slung back shots of whiskey, and covered every single inch of that reception room with fun. That night, that room, our family and friends was the definition of joy.

As everything does, the wedding came to an end. My final memories are of driving my husband's car out of the parking lot, him in the passenger seat telling me that our wedding was the most fun- the best wedding ever. I remember grinning and knowing he was right. It was.

It would be weeks before I would remember the voice that almost stopped me from having the best night of my life. And when I remembered it, it had become so faint, I wondered if I'd ever heard it at all. I thought of it and that moment it spoke to me from time to time throughout my marriage and always asked myself the same question, "Why?" Why did I hear it?

I know the answer now. But, with all sincerity, I am entirely glad I did not listen to it. If I had, I would have missed the best day of my life, and who wants to miss that?

C'est la vie, 2013

It is here. Day 365 of 365. The finale. Another year gone by. Memories made. Possibilities on the horizon.

In the past this was a night in which I'd put on my best sparkly clothes, extra lipstick, poof my hair up a bit more, head out to a party at my favorite Chicago dance club (RIP Polly Esther's) and drink top shelf liquor until the wee hours. I'd dance in the middle of the dance floor with my best friends and scream the countdown to the New Year with a rebel yell of glee and happiness. New Year's Eve was always one of my favorite nights of the year. I can't recall one that disappointed.

Those memories makes me smile. (Go ahead, remember some of your best New Year Eve parties, memories, moments. They don't' disappoint, do they?)

And now, my New Year's Eve of the present, I am watching the snow gently falling while drinking coffee out of my "Who Let the Girls Out" mug (Thank you, DeAnna) remembering my past and looking ahead to my future. I am not putting on extra lipstick tonight or sparkly clothes. There will be no dance club floor with my scuff marks on it. Tonight, I am celebrating with my two most favorite people on the planet- my children. We are putting on our best pajamas and heading down to our favorite neighbors' apartment for dinner and drinks (which they get from the top shelf of their kitchen cabinet). We're all going to write our New Year resolutions and put them in a jar to read 366 days from today. We'll play games and listen to good music and laugh and be happy... and free.

I can not say 2013 was a stellar year. There were many dark days in it for me. It was one of my hardest and most frustrating.  There wasn't one aspect of my life that I did not feel unraveled or became hard to manage. I withdrew and lost my confidence. Those dark days left me feeling so unlike myself.

As the education reform sweeping the nation finally reached my classroom, school became a challenge. The profession I once adored is being transformed into something I am not entirely sure I want to be a part of for the rest of my career. Let me clarify by saying that I am not only talking about the Common Core State Standards, but that this year I actually had to wear a t-shirt that said "No Fight Zone" on it and was also told by the assistant that we would no longer use the word consequence in our school because it is a "bad word".

Sleep eluded me for most of the year. Name an hour of the wee night and I have looked it square in the eye- not on a dance floor nor full of top shelf liquor. Lose sleep and you're looking at a myriad of troubles. None of which I'd like to discuss at this point.

Being the only parent of a kindergartner and third grader presented so many new challenges. (Besides the third grade math.) They want to do more things, be involved, have school projects to complete, and tougher questions to answer. They fight more, have egos that bruise easily, and in an irritating way, find anything to do with poop amazingly funny.

The struggle of raising children who are moral, kind, generous, well-rounded, curious... and hilarious... grew as they grew. They are out there... in the world... navigating it for themselves and I am wondering if I did enough with the lull-a-byes and hugs and bedtime stories to aid them through it. Hence, part of the reason for my sleepless nights in 2013.

I realized recently (meaning, it really hit me) how LITTLE my children were when their Dad left- just turned 2 and just turned 4- and I wonder how I did it. How did I change the diapers, get the baths done, wipe the tears... get them to daycare, preschool, and manage to make them smile as often as they did...without losing my mind? Why didn't I break long ago?

Continuing to carry the stigma of an ex-wife with an ex-husband in prison did not get any easier this year. (Even I snicker at the absurdity that I thought it would.) It is probably most what robs me of my confidence. I am so afraid of what people think about that. I know it is what hinders me actually having a second date and letting someone new into my life.

The saddest thing of all was how little I wrote in 2013. There are some days I wanted to write so badly it hurt. It actually physically hurt. My fingers ached and my forearms had to be stretched. My head spun so fast with thoughts I had to sit down.

There were nights I'd lie awake for hours processing sentences and phrases over and over in my head to the point where I could actually hear them. Right there in my room, they whispered and called to me begging me to just write.

But, I did not. Every thought, idea, post, word worried me that I'd offend someone (shocking, I know), or anger someone, or it would be so stupid people would stop reading. I was my worst critic.

When we go to our New Year's Eve pajama party in a bit, the resolution I am putting in the jar is to write more. Write and write and write. Through writing, comes healing and peace and freedom from all that holds me back. I know this New Year's Eve won't disappoint.

I am certain I was born to write. It is a great skill to have and not just to BS your way through college papers. I am certain I was born to write so that when life threw me a curve ball- I'd make it through. And then I realized, if I piss someone off or turn someone away with my words... well, then I am a writer.

In 2014, I am a writer.

A Problem of Obtuse Proportions

I am 39 years old and I can not do math.

There are many people who believe you should never utter the words, "I can't" for if you do you are holding yourself back.

I am all good with being held back.

I first realized I could not do math the summer I turned 8 years old. My mother, being the good teacher she was, believed that children "lost so much knowledge" over the summer. (For the record, I do not entirely buy into this theory.) So, before school let out, she'd trekked over to the teacher store (they actually have these stores- the teacher store- filled with posters, classroom supplies, bulletin board boarders, workbooks, stickers, anything and everything a teacher could ever want) and bought my sister and I summer workbooks for reading and math. She came home and showed them to us, smiling as she said we'd have to complete one page from each book every day of our summer vacation. Every. Day. We would have to do math. Problems. This was certainly a problem for me. I probably started to cry right then and there, before the brown workbook had ever been open.

I dreaded the endless problems of addition, subtraction, multiplication, division. The story problems, the symbols, the numbers- the whole lot of it, I just, despised. My mind never worked when it came to all those things. Numbers frustrated me, it was hard. They never worked right in my head. It took me FOREVER to solve simple problems. Forget long division.

And so there I sat, every day of my summer vacation, with my little legs sticking to the vinyl kitchen chair, doing math problems. My pencil rubbed tally marks and answers, only to be erased because they were wrong. What was wrong was that I was even sitting there, baking in our tiny kitchen, adding up numbers I did not even care about. If I'd known then what a calculator was, I would have snuck one in so at least I could get outside to enjoy some of  the daylight.

To make matters worse, my sister was a whiz at math. She finished her problems with such speed and gusto, it made me hate math more. I am pretty sure her legs never had time to stick to the vinyl chairs.

By the time I got to junior high, I really hated math. In eighth grade, my teacher, Mr. Johan, would teach us algebra. By the end of May, all I knew about algebra was that you could call it "alge's bra" and that was thanks to the completely immature boy that sat behind me. Mr. Johan had no use for me because I was not good at math. He would fire graded papers  back at us like missiles. (I think he secretly delighted in this, as he struck with such force, more so with the papers filled with redmarks- like mine. It is surprising I did not lose an eye that year.) At the end of the year, he told us what math class we would take in high school. I would be placed into the "fundamental classes". He was clearly disappointed; I was relieved.

In high school, I stayed in that fundamental track all four years. Those of us in that track (I interject to inform all those mortified by the term "tracked", that I turned out just fine, even after being labeled.) affectionately coined the term, "fun-for-mentals", for all our math classes. "Fun-for-mentals" geometry 1, "fun-for-mentals algebra 2 and so on.

My sophomore year, one quarter, there was a big fat F on my report card for "fun-for-mentals" geometry. Obviously, I was not having so much fun in that class. I tried to explain to my parents (who kindly let me live after getting an F on a report card) that slopes of lines and names of shapes and pie X radius squared (Ha! And you were beginning to think I'd learned nothing!) really did not matter. I tried. They did not believe me and therefore, I spent the next quarter of my life in complete and total math hell. I can not even type about it, it takes me back to such a bad place.

Once in college, I knew there would be more math classes to take and unfortunately, my university did not offer "fun-for-mentals" level math classes.

Then came the first day of math methods. Methods classes are for education majors. In these classes, you learn to teach all the different subjects. Since I was an elementary school major, I would have to learn to teach math. I am pretty sure there is not a point in my life that is a bigger oxymoron.

My professor was in love with math. In love. She was a beautiful woman who dressed to the nines, had nails painted shades of deep red (which often reminded me of Mr. Johan's graded paper missiles), and spoke in a grand voice about the wonders of math. She was high on math. Every day.

Her task, so she told us, was to show us all these fabulous new ways to teach math. Clearly, I had missed something- new ways to teach a subject thousands of years old? In a great flurry, she would present these methods and everyone else in the class would scribble away in their notebooks, while I sat there completely dumbfounded thinking, "What in the great hell have I gotten myself into?" She'd assign problems for us to solve and walk around to look at everyone's work. My paper- blank. Her expression- annoyance.

Math methods got so bad I had to have my boyfriend  tutor me. He was a mechanical engineering student. All the people at his university loved math. He loved math. Everyone at that point in my life loved math. I was a complete and total outcast.

Somehow, I managed to pass math methods and soon found myself standing in front of my own classroom! Of sixth graders. Who would need to be taught math. I truly do not know how, but I managed to teach them math. One of my former students from that class recently told me that I'd taught it so well. I told her it was all smoke and mirrors.

Eventually, I became an eighth grade English teacher and never thought about math again. Occasionally, in study halls, students would ask me to help them with their math. My response was, "I do not speak math." They'd giggle and show me their problems. I'd say, "Yep. That is a problem," and walk away to find them a math teacher.

Then, I became a mom. Not long after we brought our sweet baby girl home, my husband and I sat in the living room, gazing at her and discussing her future. We talked of when she'd go to school and what her experience would be like. We laughed about how I would never be able to help her with her math homework. We made a deal, right then and there, a promise, that he would help her with all her math homework and I would help with all her English homework.

A deal and a promise, breezily made, but one which I took completely to heart. I knew then that I did not want my daughter to know the frustrations, the aggravations, the disappointments, the resentments I had known about math. I was relieved that she would have someone with her, helping her, guiding her, and sharing his love of a subject with her.

My daughter is now in third grade.

And her Dad is not here to help with her math homework. I am.

If you know nothing about current third grade math, let me sum it up for you by telling you that the teacher has to send  links to tutorials every night for parents so that they can learn how to do the math. Every night. Tutorials. For the parents. Who went to third grade.

I watch the tutorials. I listen to the methods. I see what is happening on the screen. My eyes begin to blur. My ears fill with fog. And my body fills with hate.

Not hate of the subject, hate of my ex-husband.

It is the first time, in five years, I have hated him. Truly hated him with every ounce of my being. All the wrong he did, all the pain he caused, all the things we have had to endure because of him, and now I truly hate him because he left me here to do math problems. He broke his promise. And that is a problem.

My sweet girl looks at me, sees me watching those tutorials, listens to me shouting about how in my day math was not like this, and says, "It's ok, Mama. I can help you." Sweet baby Jesus, how did I ever get such a good little girl?

I can't say that one day I will love math. But I can say that I love helping my daughter with her math homework. Even though I still don't get it.

*This is for Cindi. Thank you for getting me to write again, friend.

A Query or Two

Maybe you're wondering why it has been so long since I have written.

There are countless posts just sitting in my dashboard. Most are half written, half deleted. A few only contain one sentence. Or a quote. Most trail off and lose their focus half way through.

They all depict my frustrations as a writer. The frustration of loss of words, explanation, feeling, motivation, and... most importantly, loss of pride.

Of all the arts, I believe writing to be the most difficult. One must paint the picture, activate the mind, leave room for thought all in one piece. Lately, I just haven't felt I could do that.

Then something happened yesterday and now, the words just have to come out. That's how writing is. The words build up inside you... no matter how long you've kept them in there... and finally, they have to come out. 

Yesterday, we took a quick trip to Target. I wanted to get in and out in under forty-five minutes. So, why is that when a mom is so focused on such a task, her child picks that moment in time to start asking the "hard questions"?

Less than two minutes away from the store, from the backseat came the most heavyhearted voice I have heard in a long time. 

"Mama? It's not fair we can't have Daddy at our house. He can't play with us. It's not fair," announced my five-year old son.

I can not be certain what prompted his sentiment, perhaps it was that we'd spent the afternoon at the elementary school fun fair where Dads galore played games with their children, or maybe it was that later that evening they were headed to a friend's house to watch the original Star Wars with their friend's Dad. Whatever the case, his declaration was there, hanging raw and heavy in the air.

And I had no idea what to say in response.

As tears welled in my eyes, I replied, "You're right Bud, it's not fair." Choking back a sob, I willed this conversation to cease.

But, he went on.

"It really isn't, Mama. He has to live so far away. They should let him come home one special day to play in our house."

I wanted nothing more to get into the Target parking lot, so I could call out that it was time to help me look for a parking spot. Or to have some stupid driver cut me off so I could yell out something, thus distracting my son. I searched every corner of my brain for something else to talk about. No words came.

Sometimes, the questions have to be asked and the conversations just need to be had.

He went on.

"Mama, what did Daddy do? Really, Mama, what did he do? Why was he bad?"

I resorted to my standard answer, "Bud, remember. Daddy did something bad, that grown-ups aren't supposed to do, so the police said he has to live in Robinson for a while longer."

"I know, Mama. But, what was it?"

There was never a moment I wished for a car accident more than this one.

Long ago, I told my ex-husband I would not, not, tell our children what he'd done. One, for now, they are much, much too young to even understand what he did. There are absolutely no childlike terms to describe his crime. Two, I will be plagued with enough grown-up things to tell them. In fact, just this morning I narrowly ditched a sex discussion with my daughter. Parents should share responsibility in serious discussions with their children. And, three, most simply, it is not my story to tell. It is his. He needs to find the words to explain it to their. He has to answer their questions. He must take the ultimate ownership of his actions and relay his life-altering actions to them.

My son continued as we finally pulled into Target's parking lot. "Mama, did he hurt somebody?"

Exasperated, defeated, tired, and deeply saddened, I quietly answered, "Yes, Bud, he did."

His little voice grew louder, "What's their name?"

Putting the car into park, I turned around to face my children. I said, "I can't tell you their name. Some day, Daddy will tell you about it. But, for now, let's remember that Mama & Daddy love you very much, no matter where we are."

It must have been our guardian angels because, he seemed content with that answer. My children looked at each other and my daughter said, "It still isn't so fair that we don't have a Daddy."

I affirmed their notion and simply said, "You're right. It isn't so fair that you don't have a Daddy that lives with you. But, you have a Daddy that loves you. Now, let's get our shopping done. Who wants a Starbucks?" I was wishing Starbucks' shots were of the alcoholic kind at that point.

They declared they both did and scrambled out of the car. My daughter grabbed for my hand, and asked me, "Mama, have you had any luck finding us a new Daddy?"

I looked up at the sky and sighed. Seriously? What happened to my simple trip to Target? I ignored her question. It was too much.

But since that moment, her question has played over and over in my head.

Why haven't I found them a new Daddy? (And for the record, I hate this term- "new Daddy". No one needs a new Daddy. I don't want them to have a new Daddy. I more want them to have a "bonus Daddy".)

I have been  on internet dating sites. I have gone on dates. People have set me up with friends of friends. There has been laughter and twinkling eyes and decent conversation.

I've watched other recently divorced people meet someone who sweeps them off their feet in a matter of months. At this point, I am not recently divorced, so I have started to wonder, "What is wrong with me?"

All the Daddy talk and Daddy questions and Daddy wishes leave me wound tight. And sad. And lonely.

Maybe I am like my son, asking the hard questions. Still examining all the facts I have. Attempting to make sense of a life that is not what it should have been. Still piecing back together a wounded heart. Trying to understand why I won't let anyone back into my heart.

There comes a point in your life when you have to answer the hard questions. And I think it is time I start answering my own hard questions. Yet, going forward with that isn't as simple as typing out this post. I think what needs to happen is best summed up for me in this quotation from ― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.” 

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.