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.