2011: A horrible year...and what I've learned

It seems like odd numbered years are bad years, at least for us. In 2001, for example, I nearly miscarried early in my pregnancy, and, at the same time, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. My husband was working in Greeley while I stayed home in Denver, confined to 23 hours a day bed rest. 2007 was a horrific year...between pickup trucks landing in our front yard, to men landing on our roof with our house surrounded by police, to a burglary, it was terrible.

2011, however, is the worst year yet, I think. Between all the deaths we've dealt with, financial troubles, and personal issues, I'm so glad this year is nearly over. Each time something else life-altering has happened, I think that the year can't worsen, and then it does. I have learned a great deal from this year, and while I wish I could change some parts, this year has truly molded me into a better person.

2011 has humbled me in numerous ways and made me grateful for all I have. Losing my mother in January made me rethink my life and all I take for granted. I can no longer call her and complain about something; now I have to figure out how to handle problems on my own. I spend time occasionally, thinking about my mother's life, and while I don't know everything about her, I do know what parts I want to emulate and what I want to do differently. In some ways, it feels like I have to stand independently now, on my own two feet, and at the same time, find my bearings. My mother was the anchor holding my family together, and now she's gone, we have to figure out how to be a family without her running interference between us. This is a difficult road.

Our other area of struggle, finances, continues to plague us. Bouncing checks is a costly venture, as we've discovered, so we're doing our best to watch what we spend. And frankly, there isn't much we need other than food, paying our bills, putting gas in our vehicles, and keeping our son in shoes. Being an aware and conscientious grocery shopper is a goal of mine, and I work hard to buy what's on sale and only what we need. Yesterday, I saved 68.00 at the market. We have been forced to consider what is wasteful spending...like Costco...and what is useful spending. We are also forced to look at our checkbook more than once every two months. Our financial struggles make us better and more astute people.

Work has been tough, but I am doing my best to persevere. I do a great deal of self talk, reminding myself that I became a teacher for the students. And while there are those students who try to suck the life out of their teachers, several of whom I seemed to have had in 2011, there are plenty of others who want to learn, to think, and to be better people. I remind myself to concentrate on those students, which allows me to find the motivation to go to school each day.

I now understand, better than I ever have before, the fragility of life. In a flash, my life could be over. I find it crucial to live a good life, to try new things--foods, places, people, in order to better experience life. I want my son to know how much I love him, and how proud I am of him. I want to work with my husband to have a wonderful marriage. I want to spend time with my father because I don't know how much time we have left. 2011 was personally one of the worst years of my life, but some good has come from those struggles, especially within me.

I am glad, though, there's only one day left.

A snowy Colorado day

It began last evening, a wet and sloppy snow. News stations had various reporters stationed around the city, giving reports about travel. The weatherman stood outside, while snow flaked straight down, giving us the forecast, either good news or grim, depending on today's plans. We woke to about seven inches on the ground which, for some people, isn't much snow, but it does cause inconveniences during the holiday season. As I watch the snow fly-sometimes hard, sometimes light-I reflect on my love/hate relationship with 'white gold.'

Moving to Colorado brought the promise of snow, a substance we really had never seen, at least not up close. It was so hot when we first arrived, I thought snow was never going to happen. We saw our first fall--Burbank didn't really have a fall. but there were some trees that had leaves that changed colors. And then came the morning when my mom woke me up, yelling, "It snowed! Get up! You have to see this!" I eventually realized that she too hated snow, and she was a native Coloradan, but for this one time, she tried hard to be excited for us.

My brother and I stumbled out of our warm beds and into some clothes (we didn't really have snow clothes or coats that were warm enough at the time) and our cowboy boots (totally inadequate footwear for snow, I found out), and ran outside. In that first moment, I had several realizations: it must be cold to snow, snow is wet, and cold and wet is a state I do not enjoy. We touched the snow, threw it around a bit, and then I was done! Finished! I went back inside where it was warm and dry. I think I was outside for a total of five minutes, but I knew from that experience I would never really love snow.

Don't get me wrong; snow is lovely. Peaceful. It can be fun. Sort of. But it's cold, wet, heavy. Shoveling is misery. It gets tracked all over the house, making a mess. Snow requires a number of clothes and appropriate footwear. When it melts, it makes a mess. Driving in it isn't bad until other drivers are out there. Then it can be scary and dangerous. So, really, I'm not a fan of snow.

On so many levels, I'm a Colorado gal--hiking, biking, going to the mountains, camping...all those things Coloradans like to do. But I become a California girl as soon as the snow piles up. I want to stay inside and avoid the snow as much as possible. I know shoveling is good exercise, but I avoid it until I absolutely have to do it. Snowy days make me miss my shorts and sandals. I like warm weather; I don't even mind when it's over 90. To listen to my husband and my son, both Colorado natives, when it's warm, it's miserable for them. They love the snow. In fact, they are out shoveling right now.

There are those who make the arguments about the need for water and snow equals water. I agree. I know we need the snow. I know we all want the magical white Christmas. And snow does make it feel like Christmas. However, snow makes me want to be on a beach, somewhere, anywhere, where it's at least 85 degrees. The perfect temperature.

The Happiest Season of All...

Christmas is about memories, forgiveness, love, family, and yet, it is also a time of waste. .

As I sit and look at our lovingly decorated, memory-filled tree, I focus on the angel my mother gave me nearly 20 years ago, the angel that has topped every tree I've ever had, and I think about the Christmases she wasted over the years. There were all those Christmases without my grandmother who still lived in California. My mom would be sad, and the holidays would be miserable. After my grandmother moved here, holidays improved until dementia robbed us again of my grandmother mentally, and death eventually robbed us of her physically. My mother was sad again, and holidays were difficult. I was robbed of the past two Christmas Eves with my parents as my mother refused to be here with my in-laws. Time wasted, opportunities I will never have again.

We waste time and energy on what we think is important, but are we fooling ourselves? Is Christmas about gifts or is it about love? Gifts don't always equal love; they can symbolize it, but they can't take the place of love. Traditions exist as ways to spend time with our loved ones. One tradition I will have to create for myself is baking Italian cookies. I remember my mother and grandmother spending what seemed like hours in the kitchen baking different kinds of cookies, talking, laughing, smoking, and drinking coffee while doing so. I remember the house infused with the smells of cookies baking, baked bread, and the heat from the oven in Southern California.

This first Christmas without my mother, I'm trying to remember the good Christmases and the fun traditions we had while focusing on what is important to my family. We've watched some of our favorite Christmas movies, listened to some of our favorite Christmas songs. We've made our fudge and plan a few more cookies and other delights. I'm planning our Christmas Eve feast of lasagna, gnocchi, antipasto and chocolate. We have some lights displays we want to see. I'm doing my best to try to value the time I have with those I love rather than waste it. We visited the Christkindl market for the first time.

My family is precious as is my time. During this season of excess and waste, I want to focus on what is immediate and valuable, creating new traditions, reveling in current traditions, and using my time wisely.

My son...the one who hates to study

Since my son was identified as "gifted," he's been in a "Challenge Class" that requires him to know advanced vocabulary. Additionally, he is supposed to actually know how to spell the advanced vocabulary he's given. He rarely knows which words he's supposed to study, and he fails nearly every vocabulary test he takes. But he shocked us completely when he came home yesterday and announced he'd signed up for the district spelling bee.

He looked so proud of himself when he told me in the car on the way home. That was probably the safest place for him because I had to pay attention to the road rather than look at him and ask, "Are you kidding me?" Instead, I mumbled some sort of encouraging-sounding word as I inwardly rolled my eyes.

My son hates to study. He calls homework "stupid" and "pointless," and I spend a great deal of time trying to convince him of the purpose of homework. However, he loves words and reading. His spelling skills are amazing, and most of the words I ask him to spell, he can. However, spelling bee words are different, more difficult, and some are even words I've never heard before.

I began grilling him the other day on words like "chickabiddy" and "isosceles." He didn't know how to spell them, but he came close. Knowing how capable he is where spelling is concerned, maybe the spelling bee is a good idea. I want him to explore his options and stretch himself. I don't want him living in fear of what he can or cannot do. I've spent my life fearing the unknown, fearing my own intellectual abilities. I want better for my son.

So next week begins his foray into the world of spelling bees as an alternate, and then January he will actually compete. And I will be behind him, cheering him on his way.
My son, the one who hates to study, now has words like "chickabiddy" and "jejune" to learn by next week. I suspect he has some devious plot hatched to cause me more wrinkles and gray hair as I fight him to learn his words. "Isosceles" and "perambulate" anyone? I started shooting words at home tonight like a rapid fire gun, only to find that he knows few of them. The first spelling bee is next week! There are a few words I don't even know, but a nine year old? Especially one who hates to study? I can't imagine the horror, the horror of the next week.

I love my son deeply, and I want him to try new things in school, like playing drums, acting, or anything that doesn't require even more homework. I don't think my face or hair can take the stress!

Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's back to work I go

It's Sunday evening, the dreaded time of day, at least for the 10 months I'm in school. Sunday evenings are especially difficult after a vacation or break. I'm still in vacation mode...sleeping late, going to bed late, wearing what I want. I spent part of today grading two stacks of papers, trying to catch up.

Our next several weeks will be filled with assignments, meetings, grades, phone calls. My inbox will fill with emails. Nights will be spent grading papers, trying to catch up and/or keep up. This first semester begins slowly, but it picks up speed right after Homecoming. The last month of school is a flash, and our holiday break is spent trying to recuperate.

There's also the anticipation of the holidays, trying to fit in traditions or to start new ones. I'm always torn between going to see lights and grading papers. A non-teacher might say, "Lights, of course!" But other teachers are nodding their heads; they know what I mean! I don't think I've watched a Christmas movie in years without a stack of papers in front of me.

So why dread the inevitable? I have to work; we need the money. I choose to teach; I could be out of a job. I think it's because I've reached a stage in my life where I'm tired of living by someone's clock, someone's expectations of where I should be, what I should be doing, and when I should be there. I want to answer to myself, like I do during the summer. I dread the quick passage of time over the next few weeks, the workload, the exhaustion. I dread lunch at 10:45 and bathroom breaks every 90 minutes, maybe. And mostly, I dread waking up at 5:20 again. Ugh.

But much like the seven dwarfs, I'll be whistling a song as I point my car in the all-too-familiar direction and return to reality tomorrow. And maybe, just maybe, I'll have some fun.

True Thanks

Every love story has its unique qualities, unusual beginnings, and its own charm. We begin a romantic relationship with great expectations and hopes, but we find too many faults in our lovers or in ourselves, and ultimately a great love relationship loses momentum, fails, ends.

Loneliness causes us to make romantic choices we ordinarily wouldn't make. It was just so with me. I was involved with a man who turned out to be 19 years older than me, and since I already have a father and wasn't looking for another, I knew that relationship had to end. At the same time, I was involved with a singles group through church, and we were going to have a retreat, a retreat I didn't want to attend but had to attend since I was one of the presenters. The Friday of the retreat was cold and snowy; I spent a miserable day at the retreat center, waiting for some of the other members to show up. I did a great deal of introspection as well, and I decided that my life needed some changes, including dumping the 'boy'friend.

That retreat, however, changed my life. As the evening drew to a close and the snow picked up, a pickup roared into the parking lot. Several guys emerged, whooping and hollering with joy, having made it to the retreat house in the snow. They stomped into the meeting room, loud and snowy, but lifting everyone's spirits. The man I was introduced to, the owner of the loud pickup, changed my life. As we shook hands, it was just like in the movies...I couldn't tell where my hand ended and his began. Our eyes met and spark happened. It was the oddest sensation.

From that moment, we fit together perfectly. It was like two halves coming together to make a whole. We shared much in common, but we celebrated our differences. Our connection was immediate and solid, so much so, we were engaged within four months of meeting and married seven months after that.

My husband gives me much to be grateful for; he supported my decision to get my master's degree. He took care of me when I spent 20 weeks on bedrest while pregnant with our child, and then he spent another six weeks after that helping me as I recovered from my pregnancy and delivery. He's cared for me through surgeries, and he's held me as I cried when those I loved have died. He listens to me complain about school, and sometimes he surprises me with visits when I'm working.

We've had an array of trials and struggles throughout the past twelve years, but we persevere. We have one another, and while there are days we annoy each other, there are many more filled with love and friendship and laughter. My husband understands me and does his best to anticipate my needs and wants. I appreciate who he is and give thanks each day for him. We don't demand much of one another, which makes it easy to willing and freely give to the other.

While Thanksgiving is a time to give thanks for all our blessings, my greatest blessing is my husband (followed immediately by my child--who wouldn't be possible without my husband!). I am truly grateful for him.

Staying at home with my son

My son's school was closed today, which always leaves us scrambling. Because my husband couldn't take our guy to work, and because I don't want him at my school for two days in a row, I took today off. I found that staying at home with my son is as interesting as always.

During summer, we can go outside, swing, nap, watch the birds, read, and rarely go inside. With cooler temperatures, it's more difficult for us. I know we could suck it up and put on some winter jackets, but when I take a day off during the school year and I'm not sick, I need to do some work. We trip over one another more frequently on days like today.

He was banished to his room for a significant portion of the morning. We refer to his room as 'the cave' because it's dark, filthy and has a particular boy odor. Most likely, it's the smell of unemptied trash cans and dirt. His job was to polish his furniture and clean up his room so we don't trip over his stuff or sneeze too heavily from the dust. Banishing him to his room gave me two and half uninterrupted work hours, which was heavenly. And his room looks better too.

I miss my son during our school year. We are so busy with work, homework, karate, and Scouts, it seems as though we never see one another. It's no wonder we struggle when we're first home with one another in June. We must readjust and get to know one another again. I'm also finding a distance forming between us. I know most of it has to do with his age. He needs me less, and he wants me to hug and kiss him less. We seem to talk less as well. I'm trying not to let my heart break; I know it's important for him to begin forging his identity.

But as I was laying in bed this morning, I remembered when he would 'sneak' into my room and crawl in bed with me. We'd cuddle, hug, kiss, and giggle until one or both of us was hungry. I miss those times. Now hugging is a wrestling match, and trying to kiss him is nearly impossible.

Staying at home with my son, on occasion, gives me a chance to be with him, to talk with him, maybe even to sneak a kiss or two before he realizes what I'm doing. And during the school year, it allows us to do something special...like go to lunch and see a movie. Our time together is fleeting, and I try to make the most out of it.

I miss his childhood, but I look forward to his next phase.

Failing is an option

It's my least favorite time of year; students haven't made up work or turned in work, and now they're panicking with only a few weeks left in the semester. I've recently had several emails from kids, wanting to make up missed work. It's hard to say no, but if I don't, I'll suffer more than they will. Sadly, their poor choices become my problem rather than their problem. Saying "no" means their anger and frustration will show in my class.

The irony of it all is how much advance notice students are given about the policies and coursework in the class. I begin the first day, telling them of my policies. I have them fill out a sheet regarding my policies, which they and their parents sign. Nearly half my classes didn't do the worksheet, so I had to give them another chance to complete it. I still had a half dozen or so who never did it. I review policies throughout a semester as a reminder of what is expected. Assignments are given in advance, posted on a homework board and my website, and time is given in class to complete them. And yet, many students don't take responsibility for themselves and don't do the work.

Now they're failing. And it's my fault. I'm unfair, unreasonable. Seriously? I'm unclear how much more I have to do for my students. They have access to their grades on a daily basis, not only through a program called Parent Portal, but they can also pick up their papers and keep track of their grades. Do they? No. I have bins loaded with unclaimed papers.

Sometimes I wonder how different it is for our male teachers. Do students play a 'sympathy' card with them or do they think female teachers are more lenient about deadlines? I've been told before that I need to be more nurturing toward our students, but how much more nurturing should I be when they don't take responsibility for themselves?

Thankfully, most of my students are responsible people and don't waste time asking to turn in work that's months old. But the ones who are irresponsible leave a bad taste. They overshadow those who do what's asked. They cause problems, they act out when they don't get their ways, and the rest of us...responsible students and myself...have to deal with them.

What will happen to the irresponsible students once the safety nets of high school are removed? Where will they go? What will they do? Will they be able to hold down jobs in the future if they can barely turn in classwork now? Will they eventually see the need to complete work on time and to take responsibility for themselves? How will their negative attitudes help or hurt them in their futures?

All questions teachers routinely ask themselves. However, quite possibly a failure now, when there is less risk, will help a student forge a better path, a path of responsibility. Growing up in a 'me' generation, a generation where ribbons are awarded to any child capable of breathing, has created a generation of people who expect everything to be handed to them. Failure demonstrates the need to apply oneself; failure demonstrates the need for responsibility and action.

Ultimately, failure is an option. We've all failed at something, and it's made us more aware and stronger. We've learned to rise above it and move forward. And therefore, when students want another chance to do something that was due ages ago, I feel comfortable telling them no. They will be better people for learning a lesson in duty and responsibility, a far better lesson than if I accept their work.

Missing Mom

As the holidays grow closer, I miss my mom. Last year was our last Thanksgiving together and our last Christmas. And this year, I simply don't want to celebrate.

I miss her smell...she always smelled sweet and powdery. She smelled soft and comforting. Her house smelled the same way. Even though her house wasn't the house I grew up in, it smelled of home because she was there with her perfumes and candles.

I miss shopping with her. It didn't matter if we were buying or not (one of us usually was, though), it was fun to go with her. One of our last shopping trips was to an antique mall. We spent several hours in there, looking at everything, buying only a couple of things, but exploring every square inch of the place. Part of me wants to go back there, to recapture that beautiful, sunny Saturday, to recapture my mom, but I know she's not there.

I miss her stories. I thought I'd paid close attention to all she told me over the course of my life, but there are stories I can't remember. I'm devastated. An entire piece of me is now missing because I didn't write those stories down.

Really, an entire piece of me is missing without my mom here. We never realize how much our parents mean to us until they are no longer here. And then the regrets kick in, the 'if-onlys.' Some days I feel as though I can barely function. I want to call her, to talk to her. I resent how she was taken from us, and yet I know it's silly to feel resentful. It wasn't as though she had a choice.

I still comb my hair and put on lipstick before we go out, just like my mom did. I have a wicked purse collection, like my mom. Of course, most of my purses were my mom's, but we had similar taste in purses and wallets. I've begun working crossword puzzles, another passion of my mom's.

I wish we could talk again.

Sick child(ren): The bane of every working mom's existence

It starts with a cough and sniffle, quickly moving to coughing and hacking, sneezing and watery eyes. My son, the hypchondriac, will begin taking his temperature regularly, routinely assessing each ear to see if his temperature has gone up, stayed the same, or gone down. When we get to the point where the vaporizer comes out, he's sucking tea like it's a pacifier, and he can't quite coughing, I know I'll be taking a day or two off.

My son is a good patient,generally, and does what I say. However, getting sick can't be scheduled, and he always seems to get sick when I cannot miss school. This puts me into a conundrum: how do I reconfigure my lesson plans so I can stay home and there's continuity in my classroom or who can come watch him while I go to work? It was easier when my mom was alive; she'd generally do it although she knew she'd be sick next. But now, there's me.

It's not as though working moms cannot prioritize; we can. But I, for example, have meetings scheduled, appointments, grading, a new lesson to introduce. And really, what will I do with my students that will be enriching and meaningful while I'm gone? I love my son, and I'd do anything for him. I wish he could get sick, however, when it's a little more convenient.

But that's the lesson I'm supposed to learn, I guess. While a sick child is the bane of my existence, this might also be a chance for me to spend quality time with him, take care of myself, and slow the both of us down. This is an opportunity to embrace; I just need to get myself there.

Mysteries of female friendship

Confession: female friendship escapes me. Sad, but true.

I see women shopping together, working out together, dining together, and I feel stabs of envy. I would love a female friend with whom I could be myself, yet I've rarely experienced this type of friendship.

What is with all the drama in a female friendship?  I understand feelings of frustration, anger, or sadness, but it seems so difficult to work out those feelings with other women. Friends are supposed to accept one another, flaws and all, and yet I've been in friendships where I'm not accepted and where I have had difficulty accepting my 'friends.'

I am currently involved in a strange frienship, where I'm told how we're such good friends, but it sure doesn't feel like it to me. I feel like a friend of convenience, and I'm angry about how I'm used. I've begun distancing myself from this woman because I need to protect myself and my feelings rather than continue to feel hurt. Talking it out with this woman? No way! She's far too delicate and sensitive to have this kind of chat.

There are work friends, of course, but our personal lives are vastly different, which makes it difficult to sustain a friendship outside of school. I also like my personal life separate from my work life, which causes me to lose motivation when we aren't in school to stay in contact with my 'friends.'

Betrayal is the worst offense that has routinely happened to me, beginning in elementary school. The way women play one another to achieve a goal has always blind-sided and frustrated me. I constantly question a woman's desire to be my friend. Why does she want to befriend me? What does she want from me? My mistrust of other women detracts from my abilities-or lack thereof-to make friends with other women. It's been my experience that women don't want friendship from me, they want something else...help, someone to victimize, an homely friend to make them feel better about themselves.

As I write, I realize that it's no wonder I've preferred older women as friends, men, or to be on my own. Experience has taught me the difficulties of maintaining a female friendship. I don't understand women, even though I am one. I don't understand the types of games they play or why they play those games. And while I will continue to feel stabs of envy when I see women hanging out with other women, I will continue to turn to my husband and my books to sustain me.

The joys of others' birthdays

I love birthdays, whether they're mine or others'. I love thinking of what to do for someone that will let them know how special I think they are. I enjoy surprising those I love with something I think will suit them and something they will enjoy. I especially love my husband's birthday.

It's in October, which is already a gorgeous month and I think the beauty of the month adds to my joy in planning and celebrating it. This year, we picked out cards for him a month prior to his big day, just so we'd have them. I was grateful to be able to celebrate with him on his birthday instead of the day before or after. I find it hard to share him when it's his birthday.

This year my son and I made waffles for him. I also gave him a fabulous gift, the gift of bossing me around without any repercussions. We laughed a great deal on his birthday. We took a hike, one of our favorite activities. We didn't go far from our house, but far enough to see mountain goats. The day was gorgeous...clear skies, warm sunshine, cool breeze, not too hot. My husband had a fabulous time as did I. Our son was able to complain and whine and moan, which is his favorite hobby.

I was excited to have dinner at Ted's Montana Grill and spend quality time with my family. My husband had a great day, and I was happy to give him the type of birthday he enjoys.

But the real joy was mine, and the chance to make a beautiful memory for him.

Sometimes I wish for a different career

We all have those days...days where nothing seemingly goes right. Days where we stand in front of 30 students, unhappy to be forced into a clssroom. Days where parent emails, district emails, administration emails flood our inboxes. And it is those days when I wonder, what if? What if I did something different? What would it be?

I could work in a bookstore, surrounding myself with paper, ink, and coffee. I would enjoy running my hands over the new books, smelling the insides, the new print smell. I could happily help customers find books that appeal to them or read to little children, eagerly wanting to hear the latest Magic Treehouse book. I could spend hours with customers passionate about reading, discussing our favorite authors, poets, and genres. I could even read all the People magazines I want without having to buy one. And the best part? I can leave at the end of my shift and take nothing home...nothing but a book, of course.

There are downsides, however. Standing for eight hours a day, minimal breaks, minimum wage, cranky customers, crummy hours, and weekends. But it's an appealing fantasy, especially when everything is so stressful right now.

What else can I do? Work in a bank? Work in an office? Work in a department store? None of those seem appealing. Neither does real estate, waitressing, or sales. I wonder, though, what it would be like to work for 911 or some hotline. A doctor's office? Social work? What am I qualified to do?

And why, in October, am I having fantasies about a new career? I'm not having fun. Each day feels like a battle to do anything. I can complain and complain, but what good does it do? I can be stricter, but that makes even more work for me, and I'm not sure how much stricter I can be. Why can't my students be on time, be prepared, and do what's asked of them? Why do they have to make everything so difficult? Why do they get to take away my fun? Why should I do all the work? At what point do students assume responsibility for themselves? And what will happen to them when they are out in the workplace or in a college classroom, unable to function?

And while a new career sounds appealing, I think I just need a day off.

The joys and the horrors of the internet

I love the internet. I love what I can do, who I can talk to, music I can listen to, information I can find just with a bit of typing and navigation from site to site. I can talk to my sweet Kansas friend or my brother in law while surfing the 'net, listening to music, or checking with my Facebook friends. I particularly have enjoyed using search engines for research rather than the old-fashioned method of microfiche and periodic journals. I can go online and find coupons, which makes me happy. I can find out information about a restaurant, a concert, or a book. I can shop online and pay my bills too. I love spending time on the internet.

But there is a dark side to the internet. The internet allows people the anonymity to say whatever they desire, to slander one another, and to call one another vile names. Misinformation abounds on the internet, ruining reputations. Sites like Rate My Teacher allow students to anonymously rate their teachers and leave comments, hurtful comments as well as positive comments. Due to the site allowing anonymity, students can destroy hard-earned teacher reputations, allowing anyone who wishes to visit the site to see what horrible comments students make. The human brain takes years to mature, to fully understand the consequences of one's actions, but the internet allows students to vent about their teachers, ruin reputations, and they have no consequences for doing so.

Another dark side of the internet is the ability to insult anyone with no reprisals. Occasionally, I read comments people leave about various news stories, and they are often vile. Commentators can leave poorly spelled, poorly phrased comments for the world to see, and again, they can do it anonymously. The internet has reduced people's common sense, providing them with free speech opportunities they abuse. Moreover, some are able to leave semi-pornographic messages for any and all to read. I don't need to know that some girl got horney with her older boyfriend, and I can too. Ew.

I just discovered another site called Above Top Secret, a site I would never have found on my own if some of the crackpots who contacted me this past week hadn't mentioned it. Conspiracists are on it, leaving misinformation about all sorts of people and issues. I was bothered by this site because there is such gullibility in this world, and those who read the 'articles' might believe what is there. While research has grown easier, it seems as though few actually spend the time and energy researching both sides of an issue anymore.

We all know the internet allows stalkers and predators to carry out their fantasies and fetishes virtually unrestrained. Children fall victim when unsupervised on the internet as do adults. It's easy to find out information on someone. Peoplesearch and search engines similar to it allow visitors to find information on anyone. There are even sites that allow visitors to see the front of someone's house...from their computers!

The internet seems to allow anyone with any type of opinion a forum for their beliefs, including blogs like this. While there are so many positives about the internet, conversely there are so many negatives. I just don't know if I should rejoice in what the internet offers, including the negatives like pornography and personally invasive sites, or if I should be consider about the pervasiveness of the internet in our lives and in our culture.

Homework pain

Childbirth and its recovery were painful experiences. Tearing my rotator cuff and the tendons in my ankle were painful. Having those repaired was painful. In fact, I can think of all sorts of pain I have suffered in my life, but none of it compares to watching my son do his homework.

Homework started in kindergarten. It was simple then...color a picture, circle some animals, and draw lines between matching objects. Its purpose was to prepare my son for first grade where he'd have a little more homework. His kindergarten teacher stressed that homework should take no more than fifteen minutes. She hadn't, however, met my son.

We'd sit down after dinner to complete his homework, theoretically supposed to take fifteen minutes. Between the crying and temper tantrums--from both of us, really--he'd finally finish a couple of hours later. It was exhausting! I'd like to say that homework has grown familiar for us, but it hasn't. My son fights it for nearly eight months, eventually reconciling himself to it around the beginning of April. We have about six weeks of peaceful homework time, with him accurately and quickly finishing it.

But it's September, not April, and his homework isn't supposed to take 15 minutes per night, it's supposed to take forty minutes. Forty minutes! I know to double or triple that time, which isn't far off. Since my son was recently diagnosed as 'advanced' or 'gifted,' we thought that would give him the impetus and confidence to do his work. Nope. He takes forever to do his work, and the time often involves tears. I try not to cry in frustration, but it's hard when he's saying, "I have to create problems where the answer is 40 but I can't use the number4." And then it takes 35 minutes for him to think of a few problems. I leave the room in frustration.

He also refuses to do his homework at the kitchen table or his nice desk. Instead, he spreads his work all over the couch, making it impossible for us to sit on it too. Or if we're cooking dinner he's asking constant questions about his work from the living room, resulting in one or both of us frustrated because I can't hear the questions, and I won't walk into the living room to help him. Surprisingly, his math homework takes the longest. I say surprisingly because he has scored advanced on math tests and his math work is really good.

Homework requires patience, and after a long day working with students who require patience, I find I'm short on it when at home. I dread homework because he turns it into such a problem, a drawn out, sordid affair. As homework times winds down, I'm about to pull hair...his because he makes the simplest assignment as difficult as a master's thesis and mine because I'm frustrated. I'm shocked at my attitude because I see the value in homework, but my son doesn't. Regardless of what we say, he fights his work with every fiber of his being. I relish homework free nights, I have to confess.

I don't mind homework, but watching my son do it is like watching paint dry. It's more painful than any injury or surgery I've had. My mind screams obscenities while I smile and breathe for patience.

Well, it's time to get back to homework help.

Our little family

My husband and I are the proud parents of one child, a boy. Sure, when we first married, we were excited to have a couple of kids, preferably a boy and a girl (my husband's wish) or two boys (my wish). Sadly, my body could barely carry one to full term, and the idea of 30 weeks of bedrest with a toddler felt impossible to me. It's taken me nearly 10 years to get my energy back, and I'm still working on my body.

But three seems to be a perfect number for us. It has religious significance: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, for example. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit as another example. We also have three bathrooms, which is absolutely perfect some nights! In restaurants, it's usually easier to seat three more quickly than four.

While many folks want to criticize us for having 'only' one child, we are grateful for the one child we have. Some tell us how lonely our son must be without brother and sisters, but he doesn't know differently, so how can he be lonely? I'm always amazed at how easily people who don't know us and our experiences judge us for our 'selfish' choice. We don't see ourselves as selfish; we see ourselves as lucky because we nearly didn't have our son.

And he is an amazing young man! As I write this, he's shredding zucchini to help his dad bake chocolate zucchini bread. He's interested in cooking, working with his hands, helping his dad make things, and mowing the lawn. He draws, paints, plays a drum, shoots a compound bow, and likes camping. His newest hobby is playing games on the computer, which he can do for great lengths of time, and it causes his attention span to decrease. He's also interested in reading, watching movies and TV shows, the art and natural history museums. Plus his interest in karate. There are also his dislikes: cleanliness, doing dishes and laundry, putting away his clothes, doing homework, and cleaning up dog poop. He's a happy child, who giggles easily and smiles often. 

Recently, he found out he doesn't like sharing a seat on the bus when his class went on a field trip. And since his dad and I both have brothers, we torture him much like we tortured our siblings, playing games like "I'm not touching you," wrestling, and "why?" Much like our siblings, he hates those games, but we think they're good for him so he isn't missing out too much as an only child.

Our family treasures our group hugs and other moments together. We play card and board games with one another, ride our bikes together, go hiking together. We want our son to know how much we love him as well as know how to enjoy the world beyond our four walls. We want him to know how to do his laundry and cook for himself so he can survive on his own eventually. He also makes his own lunch so he can pack what he wants for lunch. He's an independent child, for the most part.

As I write, the guys are baking. I've made dinner--it's in the oven. We'll eat dinner, have a bit of dessert, and then crawl into the couch to cuddle and watch some cartoon movie. Sure, we get mad at each other, we frustrate one another, but ultimately, we love one another and truly enjoy spending time together.

I am a blessed and happy woman.

My son came to school with me today as there was testing at his school. We had no one to care for him, so coming to high school made sense. As a Webelo, he needs to sell popcorn, and teachers and staff are wonderful about helping with fundraising. This was a good day to experience high school and watch his mom in action.

While my sweet son is an early riser, he was dragged out of bed even earlier than usual. He shoveled a quick breakfast of cereal and was hustled upstairs to get ready for the day. His natural tendency is dawdling, and while we know not to raise our voices to make him hurry--that has the opposite effect--there was some voice raising and horn honking as he looked for this and that. Because he is organizationally challenged, we were 10 minutes late leaving, which truly flummoxes me, and I feel flustered and brusque when trying to start my work day. Naturally, students were waiting for me, which also caused me to feel frustrated.

Once we were settled into the rhythm of the day, my son explored the school a bit. While he's grown up in the school, he still forgets the names of our staff or where certain people are. I actually had to forgo work during my planning block to walk him around, mostly so he could hit up people to buy popcorn. It's been awhile since his last visit, and everyone was shocked at how much he's grown. I'm amazed to still be in this school, working with some of the same people who knew me before I was a married mom. I have to say, though, my heart was nearly bursting with pride as we visited with certain people who've known him since before birth.

We also had lunch together, and while I generally prefer a solitary lunch, it was delightful to sit with my son in my classroom and 'do lunch.' He asked me why we can't go out when he visits, but frankly, there's so little time to do so. Because my little guy is so mature and generally well-spoken, many adults like him to visit with them for a bit. It means a great deal to him to be with the teachers.

Naturally, our principal, mischievous as he is, always does something to 'get' at me, something fun. Today he gave my guy 20 popsicles to take with him. 20! What I love about my son is how little fear he has of principals since he's been around one or more his entire life. In fact when his principal retired last year, he made her a card, thanking her for being such a good principal furing his first year at the school.

We didn't leave until nearly 4, and exhaustion began to creep over my son. At dinner, he could hardly keep his eyes open; at the grocery store, I think the cart kept him upright. High school is tiring for nine year olds! He was so tired, honestly, he put himself to bed tonight while we put away groceries. When we checked on him, our son was sound asleep, worn out from his adventurous day.

When asked about the best part of his high school day, he told me it was having lunch with me. I am truly blessed.

Failure to communicate

Communication is key to maintaining good relationships, whether they are personal or professional. And  yet it seems so difficult for so many to take the time to listen to others and understand varying points of view. Failure to do so results in frustration, anger, and poor relationships.

There are so many ways to communicate, and yet we seemingly grow worse with it. It's hard to understand the tone of an email or text, and it's easy to respond with hostility when feeling confronted. Texts are the same; it's easy to misinterpret the tone of a text, and even easier to respond hurtfully. Granted, email and texting make it easier and quicker to communicate; it's easy to hit send rather than talk to someone face to face.

Between my students and my coworkers, I'm inundated each day with a barrage of emails. While I don't necessarily mind, I am frustrated when my messages are misread or misunderstood or not read at all. It's hard to communicate face to face with people who don't listen, so it seems logical to send an email, right? That way those folks who have difficulty in focusing on what's said can read and reread a message. Wrong! Even then the emails are misunderstood and a ruckus is made. For what purpose? How hard is it to take a few minutes to reread a message before responding and hitting send? How much easier work would be if people read their compositions as well as the emails they receive.

It's the same at home. Regardless of the number of ways to communicate, misunderstandings occur. Plans are made or something happens that isn't relayed to the other. Naturally, feelings are hurt, frustration grows, and on occasion, harsh words are said. Once "send" is pushed, there's no going back. The words float in cyberspace and cannot be taken back. Before cell phones, I remember people making effort to call loved ones to tell them if they'd be late or not. Now it's almost too inconvenient to do so.

We are so quick to respond emotionally to any and all situations. When did we become so infantile? When do we learn to handle breakdowns in communication with logic and reason rather than emotion and sarcasm? Isn't it more effective to take a deep breath and to consider how or what to respond before doing so? A friend talks about how we all have our 'goggles,' which I totally understand, but how do we develop our own awareness of when our goggles are affecting our abilities to listen and respond effectively

I like to think I'm pretty good at communcation, but I've had several incidents in the last few days that cause to me reconsider this evaluation of myself. I've received tonal email from parents, students, and coworkers, and quite frankly, I'm feeling like telling everyone, "If you've got something to say to me come and say it to my face. Stop hiding behind email!" My job is hard enough, and then to have this added stress of poor communication makes my job even harder. It would be nice to have people grow up a little, to stop taking everything as a personal attack, and to learn to listen better as part of communicating more effectively.

The love of my dog

In January of 2006, we adopted our lovely dog, Daisy, from a colleague. Daisy was the shy dog of the litter, and we nearly fell on her, trying to get her to come to us. She whimpered all the way home while we excitedly discussed her name. No matter what we suggested, we finally accepted the fact that her given name-Daisy-fit her best. I'd always thought my first dog would have a literary name, and I finally realized there was a Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby, so I agreed that Daisy would be the perfect name for our new dog.

Daisy is a caramel colored dog with chocolate brown eyes, white tipped paws, and a long white spot on her chest. Her tail curls up and her ears are large and floppy. Daisy hates confinement, which is why putting her into a crate was such a bad idea. She'd pee and poop in her crate, and then she'd huddle in a corner until I came home. We learned quickly that if Daisy doesn't want to do something, she's not going to do it. In that she is much like the rest of us; it's hard to make us do what we don't want to do.

9 months after we adopted Daisy, we adopted another dog to help her learn to be a dog. She, up to that point, had destroyed our yard with digging and eating anything made of wood. She destroyed the fence line as she ran up and down all day long, barking at the dogs next door. Our house was equally unlucky. When left to her own devices, she would sit on the back of the couch, eat batteries, pee in the bathtub, and eat our son's toys. An older dog, a dog we named Jesse after Uncle Jesse of the Duke's of Hazzard,was our best bet to help Daisy figure out what it meant to be a dog.

Jesse taught Daisy a great deal, and when he died a few years later, Daisy assumed her position as 'head dog' of our little family. She keeps us in line; she mothers us, telling us what to do. She follows me everywhere. It's a bit like having another child in the house because I'm never alone, even in the bathroom. She sleeps on our bed, protects our house, and reminds us to walk her regularly. With the installation of dog doors, Daisy is now able to stay in the house with access to the outside.

She also loves to be out in the snow, and there's never a shoveling experience that doesn't involve Daisy "helping" in her Daisy way...chasing the shovel, eating snow, jumping into snow piles. Another of her loves is sitting in front of the screen door in the summer, smelling summer's life. When we sit out front, Daisy likes to sit with us, watching life go back and forth. It doesn't matter where we are, Daisy is nearby.

Walks are always adventures with Daisy on the leash. She likes to bark all the way down the street, letting all the other dogs know that Daisy's on a walk. She hates small dogs, so she will always charge them, nearly pulling our arms off in her attempts to fight them. She loves to play with other dogs though and has rarely met a dog she didn't like. We explore all sorts of areas together, and Daisy is always sad when a walk is over.

Surprisingly, Daisy has some best doggie friends: Titus from down the street who looks like her brother; Spirit from up the street; Patience who is always getting out of her yard and coming into ours...but she lives around the corner. Her best friend is Buddy, who is so short and squat, Daisy can stand over him. She likes going to his house as much as he likes coming to her house to play.

Daisy has changed our lives immeasurably. We have become a family of dog lovers, who talk to their dog as though she truly understands what we say. Daisy isn't often left behind since she loves walks; she doesn't like camping as much as we do, however, but she'll grudgingly go because she can ride in the truck and be with us. Ultimately, being with us is Daisy's priority. And we are a better family because of her.

Quiet time

Shooing my husband and child to bed is quite a task. Finally, when the upstairs floor boards groan and pop as they stumble over them and into bed, it's my time. Quiet time.

Our dog sits with me, one ear cocked in case I get up, dozing on the floor as I relish my Friday night quiet time. My head echoes with the voices and school bells of the day and I begin to wind down. I begin to let go of the stresses of the week, while ghosts of students, past and present, clank around in my mind.

Friday night, for me, is a thinking night. Now I know that sounds a bit stupid, but I need the quiet time to think about everything and nothing. I think of school, my mom, this week's karate lesson, kids I'm worried about, politics, my dad...thought whirl and bump and scream throughout my brain. The night quiet allows them to wear themselves out so I can sleep peacefully. I replay a week's worth of conversations in my head, allowing them a chance to be heard one last time before drifting away into their storage spot.

I love Friday nights because I get to catch up with myself, check in, and see how I'm doing. As the minutes pass, our dog sighs, groans, and finds new positions, telling me that, really, she's ready for bed. While I appreciate her input, I know that my mind isn't ready for bed. Years ago, as a young teacher, I would fall asleep on the futon on Friday nights, exhausted by my new teacher enthusiasm. Rarely do I fall asleep on the couch now, but when I do, it does feel a bit like a luxury.

My husband doesn't understand my need to stay up late on Friday night, even though I've explained it several times. There's something about a nearly quiet house, creaks and cracks and pops included, that restores me. I have unwound. And now it's time for bed.

Tears of sorrow

My son cried himself to sleep tonight. His last great grandmother passed away last week, and I think her death was his 'final straw.' He is missing his Memaw, my mother. He has realized the finality of death. No more pancakes or scrambled eggs for him, which made him cry harder.

It's interesting to hear what he misses since his Memaw has died. He misses breakfasts with her. It's odd that he doesn't miss some of the other things they did together, like watering plants, vacuuming, watching cartoons together. She liked taking him to Target, buying him a toy each time they went. He misses those toy buying trips.

He had a great deal of freedom when he was with Memaw. He ate marshmallows for breakfast one time, and they went to Wendy's a couple times a month. I know he misses marshmallows for breakfast...a food item not allowed at the breakfast table. We hardly eat fast food, so he craves Wendy's on occasion.

I think he really just misses time with his Memaw. They were good buddies and saw one another nearly every day of his life. Memaw was a good grandmother to my son; she spoiled him like a grandmother should, but she always told him how much she loved him. His heart is sore; his eyes full of tears. He doesn't understand death, but really, who does? His great grandmothers were both in failing health and in pain, but not Memaw. Why, he asks, why did Memaw die? I wish I could answer him, but instead, I hold him tightly and cry with him.

RIP Novels

The novel is dead. Maybe not good and trashy novels, but the classic novel is dead. Teachers, however, don't necessarily know the novel is dead, which is why they keep assigning it, but henceforth it shall be known, the novel is no more.

In the 21st century, we need to focus on bytes rather than comples thoughts. Texts rather than complete sentences. Nonfiction rather than fiction. Classic literature is dead.

Long, well-developed sentences are no longer necessary; ditto for spelling, grammar and punctuation. 21st century students need to know how to write in first person, tell a story, and while they're at it, who needs a thesis or any kind of evidence? Make up statisics on the spot, I say!

Pictures, photoshop, and webcasts, that's where the future will be! Who needs thought? Who needs planning? Write on the fly, hit send, and you're free. Free to express yourself in any way, shape or form. Who cares if students can't spell or understand parts of speech? No one wants to kill creativity.

In the 21st century it's all about me, me, me. Put me on YouTube, set up a free blog, pay attention to me. Essays are too long, make them shorter instead. The future's not literary; it's free, free, free. Call back the books, throw them out, put them in a museum. They're old, they're boring, they don't relate to me. Find me something on Alba, Gaga, or Bieber, not Faulkner, Morrison, or Shakespeare. They're old, they're dead. I can't relate to them, and if I can't relate to them then out in the trash I throw them with glee.

My attention span's waning. Who cares it's only 12 minutes? Let's cater to it, the national attention span average, throw out the novels, the spelling, the grammar, let us all be free, free, free, free to be ourselves, unhampered by novels, instead read blurbs, and blogs and articles. Make sure the reading level is 3rd to 6th, we don't want to work too hard. Because if we do, oh my, we might have to crack open a novel, a grammar book, or--heaven forbid!--learn how to spell or critically think!

Bullies

Bullies exist regardless of the number of anti-bullying programs currently available. Most of us have been bullied at one time or another and lived to tell about it. Others haven't been so lucky, succumbmng to their bullies by killing themselves. There are numerous reasons for bullies, but none excuse their behavior.

As a child, I was often bullied for being chubby, smart, wearing glasses, and having braces. When I moved to a new state and school, I stood up to a girl, who proceeded to bully me until we were juniors in high school. I asked for help in dealing with her, and I was told to avoid her. That's how we were helped in the 80s. If a student confides in me about being bullied, I immediately follow the action plan we have and notify the proper authorities. Bullies are supposedly not tolerate, but then we all know that isn't true.

However, adult bullies are more difficult to deal with. Adult bullies use various media to send out their messages of hate and intolerance. Adult bullies make up lies, use police or lawyers, and instill fear in their perceived enemies. Adult bullies use their children and the friends of their children to cause panic and fear in others. Because adult bullies often have more money and more power, they are able to flout their attitudes and cause problems for others. How are they stopped?

Currently it seems as though they can't be stopped. With Facebook, Myspace, and blogs, bullies can spread their negativity throughout cyberspace. If they can't obtain their desired results they can write letters or articles for local newspapers, once again spreading their messages of hate and intolerance. The worst part is when bullying takes place in a work environment and the boss is unwilling to support her employees, employees feel powerless, scared, and stressed. No work environment can be successful with people who feel powerless and scared. Why tolerate bullies in the workplace? Why tolerate bullies at all?

I challenge those who are bullied to stand up and defy the bullies. Continue to push the issue until it is resolved. And for those who are bullies? Grow up. Get ahold of yourself. Get a life, you pathetic pieces of trash.

Ripped Off by Golden Nugget

My husband lost 2300 dollars today to an out of state company called Golden Nugget. They buy gold. All sorts of work had to be done to bring the building up to code, and the balance remains unpaid. Moreover, they refuse to pay the full amount they owe, insisting that they are being overcharged. Actually, they aren't; my husband had to have tradesmen complete some of the work, he needed an architect, he had to fight with the city over the permit...and this company has the audacity to cheat him.

I'm disgusted right now, and I feel terrible for my husband. The needs of Golden Nugget have taken up his time, none of which he's paid for, and have set him behind with his other, PAYING clients. How can businesspeople live with themselves when they cheat little guys like my husband? It seems logical to me: when someone is hired to do a job, pay them for it. We don't always like the prices we have to pay, but they are a reality of doing business. There are so many factors that go into pricing, none of which companies like Golden Nugget seem to understand.

Now we're short 2300.00, money we need. I'm sure the owners of Golden Nugget aren't worried about mortgage payments, care and feeding of their children, or their retirement. They can only see the bottom line, which is less than they're willing to pay for services. And us? What will we do? Cinch our belts a little tighter, hope nothing medical happens, and pray for my husband to continue to work to make up this loss.

Avoid this company!

The First Day of School

A convoy of yellow buses converge on the school where I teach, unload their first load of the day, and just as quickly leave, headed to pick up more anxious, nervous children.  Parents recklessly hurry into the parking lot, teenagers exiting quickly before their friends see them being dropped off by adults. Teachers carrying coffee cups, lunch bags, schools bags, and an assortment of other bags bustle into the building, intent on making sure they are ready for their new students and day. Tomorrow is the first day of school.

At the beginning of August, I start eyeing school supplies in various stores. My fingers brush against new pens, and I search the aisles for 'necessities' like fat magnet clips or colored staples. The stacks of lined paper call my name as do folders that look like rainbows and markers neatly standing at attention. The temptation is usually too great, and I surrender to new pens, at the very least. While I'm not usually ready for the start of school, I love new school supplies.

With a fist clenched around my son's school supply list, we head into the maelstrom that is school supply shopping. Pencils? Check. Wide ruled paper? Check-but ugh! who uses that? Kleenex, Chlorox wipes, baggies. Interesting requests and...check. Naturally, I have to throw something in the cart I want, like a funky new pen or some purple sticky notes. My son is nearly as excited as I am to go school shopping.

Each July a letter arrives, which I lovingly refer to as 'the letter of doom.' It's usually a cheery note from my principal, letting us know the specifics about our return. It casts a brief pall on our summer, but then we go back to swimming, biking, walking, hanging out on the porch, and readying ourselves for school shopping. I frequently can't remember when we are supposed to report, much to the frustration of those who ask when I go back. I like to pretend I have more summer. Upon our return, meetings swamp our days, and time in our classrooms is limited. Like ants, we hurry to and fro, making copies, putting up posters, planning lessons. Occasionally previous students come to visit. If they linger too long I often put them to work as well. I'm training them not to linger too long. Seniors are often scared before college begins, and they need to know there is a trace of an umbilical cord attached to their alma mater before they fly away for good.

On the first day of school, I have a sinking feeling in my stomach and a series of "what ifs" plaguing me. I remind myself constantly that it's a new year with new students, all of whom have to be trained to work and think for my class. In my mind, I plan what I'm going to say and do and hope it'll be enough to fill the time. As I walk into the building, the nervousness and anxiety are so thick, along with the hormones and the body sprays, a small fog forms around the students. Of course there are kids out of dress code, trying to be cool, to flout the school's rules. Others are hurrying, heads down, to find their classrooms so as not to be late. The halls fill with a crescendo of noise, the bell rings, the kids hurry to their first class, and then...silence. And the year begins.

On My Child's First Day of School...

I will be sitting in a meeting. Because of my job, there are few times during the school year where I can do something with my son at school. We have a tradition where I take him to school on his first day, every first day since he was in pre-kindergarten.

But tomorrow is different. Instead of spending quality time with my son, I'll be in training. Sure, I'd like to be late to the training, but I have to weigh the consequences. Do I miss my son's first day of fourth grade, or do I miss a training for something I'll need sooner than later?

When I explain to him that I won't be able to take him tomorrow, he makes one of his customary nine year old noises, "Ahhhhh," which is one of his many annoying noises. This is the disappointed noise. The noise that lets me know I am failing as a parent. Or at least that's my perception of the noise. I assure him I'll be there immediately after school to pick him up, crazy dog in tow, which seems to make him feel better. His happy noise is "yay!" While he doesn't seem to mind my absence from our ritual, I know I do.

I know that he'll enter fourth grade only once. After that, he's a veteran. I won't be able to help him find his teacher or the spot where he's supposed to meet his class tomorrow. I won't be able to watch him march bravely and resolutely into the building in his new Chuck Norris t-shirt hunched over by his overloaded backpack. Never in years past has he turned around for one last look; I assume it's because he knows I'm still watching, waiting for him to enter his realm. But this year, this year seems unfair. I have only one child, and I try to miss as little as possible where he's concerned. I won't get any first day of fourth grade do-overs.

But my work duty calls. And, as many people like to remind me, I'm lucky to have a job in this economy. I just hate it when my job interferes with my other job...my mom job.

Disconnection

With varied and numerous methods of communication, it seems to me that our ability to communicate with one another has deteriorated. Moreover, we expect quick responses to texts and emails, and when people don't respond, we grow frustrated and impatient, sending a follow-up text or email. 20 years ago, when I began teaching, I called parents and left voicemails (a recent technological advance for the time). Should they wish to respond, they called me and left a voicemail. Or I sent notes home. I even mailed letters. Now, should a parent email me, they expect and immediate answer. More often than not, they get it because it's expected that I respond quickly.

Email, Facebook, and texting have made it simpler to end frienships, have arguments, or provide the courage to say what someone would never say in person. Because it's hard to understand tone and undertone in texts and emails, recipients often have the wrong idea about the author's intention. It's too easy to hit "send" and to difficult to reread what's been written to determine if tone is appropriate or not. Disconnection is inevitable when we allow the computer to do for us what we are too scared to do in person.

Years ago, I could go shopping or to a museum to relax and get away from everything. Now I have to take my phone with me. What if there's an emergency and I'm needed? Or so I'm told. I find myself checking my phone several times a day to see if I've any texts or voicemails. Of course, it's easy to ignore texts and voicemails, but then I feel guilty for doing so. We are so connected to one another that we lose a connection to ourselves. I miss being unreachable, and whenever I shut off my phone or leave it at home, it seems like that's when my phone is busiest and people panic because they can't get ahold of me. I would be gone for hours as a teenager, and my parents couldn't activate my GPS since there was no GPS. They didn't monitor my phone calls. They trusted me and empowered me. The reliance on cell phones, for example, has taken away the feeling of empowerment in our younger people, and they are now unable to much for themselves.

Email, Facebook, and texting, while providing us another method of communication, have taken over our  lives. Wi-Fi in the grocery store or on the bus? Heck ya! Computers and internet access in the hotels or motels? Why yes, I have to check my email on vacation. Something important might have happened. With a few strokes of the keys and a send button, I can let everyone I know what I'm doing, who I'm seeing, or how I'm feeling. I don't have to have long, personal conversations with people anymore; I can do a short conversation by text. I can be both connected and disconnected at the same time.

There's also the notion of multi-tasking. Checking one's cell phone or email while in the company of another person, for example. It drives me crazy when I'm out to eat and a couple (or more) is sitting at the table, completely engaged in their own cell phones. No live conversation is taking place. It also drives me nuts when I'm talking to someone and they're texting or checking Facebook at the same time. I'm present; they are not. When this is done to me, I feel as though I'm completely irrelevant. I actually ask students to put away their phones while we're conversing, and they're shocked that I require their attention on me while we're conversing. Watching parents text or check the internet in front of their children only teaches this rude and inconsiderate behavior to the children. They will continue to perpetuate this rudeness as they grow older.

I find that cell phone usuage has no etiquette. It's now permissable to take calls in movies, at museums, the grocery store, and to do so on full volume. I hate sitting in a public bathroom, listening to a phone conversation from another stall. Really? Peeing while talking on the phone? It's hard to enjoy time out when I'm listening to people's loud conversations on their cell phones. I've even watched people texting during church. Why bother going to church if texting someone is more important? Texting during funerals and weddings is also tacky.

Because of our disconnection from one another, formerly unacceptable behaviors are now acceptable. Our disconnection from one another via electronic devices has made it difficult to maintain interpersonal skills, such as conversing with one another or even giving our friends, partners, and children the attention they need and deserve. Our expectations of one another have also changed; quick responses to our messages and impatience when that doesn't happen. While it's pretty neat to sit in my bedroom, talking to someone in Madrid, what about my husband who is sitting next to me? Technology has empowered us and crippled us simultaneously. The loss of interpersonal skills will do what for our society?

A Student I Hate

I made a mistake today. Just one? I'm sure you're wondering. The answer is simple; I looked at my class rosters for the upcoming school year and found I have a student I hate.

Now hate is a strong word, I know. One I've rarely used in 19 years of teaching. But this kid, well, I hate him. He's rude, disrespectful, disruptive, and the sight of him makes me anxious and angry. I never know what he's going to do or say, or how he's going to undermine my authority in the classroom. I just know he will. He is a misogynist, which is apparent in the ways he treats me and other females.

When he was a freshman, he threw food around my room, spit juice at another student, strutted like a peacock--disrupting the classroom--and was loud and rude from day one. I tried to make connections with this student by greeting him with a friendly smile and a cheery hello when he entered the room, only to be ignored. I encouraged him and cheered him on when we were working together in class competitions. I took an interest in his academics and complimented him for the academic success he was having. I tried talking his sport with him. I've talked to him privately in the hall, usually another successful strategy to make connections with boys, letting him know I was on his side but needed him to be cooperative, only to have him ridicule me when he returned to the room.

My reward for this effort? Continued disrespect, rude behavior, condescension, cheating from him, poor behavior during standardized testing (nearly invalidating the tests of not only him but his entire class), disdain...the list goes on. By the middle of his sophomore year, I gave up. I've tried ignoring him, which he hates and which makes him behave worse. I've contacted his parents, which upset him and made him behave worse. I've talked to his administrator and counselor, who have basically told me to deal with him. I've spoken to his coaches, which hasn't helped, except when he's in-season. His parents have requested his removal from my class. He has requested a transfer. I've requested it. Nothing. We were both told to deal with one another, to figure it out.

By the spring of his junior year, I couldn't stand the sight of him, nor could he of me. Days when he left or ditched were great days for the both of us as well as his peers. They also feel the stress he causes when he's present. Any time I've had a substitute, he makes an effort to tell the sub how much he hates me and how evil I am. I make certain the subs know he's going to do this and to let me know what he says. My final straw was when he began cheating during a game with another class. I removed him from the game, and he started yelling at me, verbally abusing me. I went to the office with him in tow, disrespecting me in front his administrator. His behavior was still not enough to even have him suspended. Instead, we were again told to deal with one another. What finally changed was when he disrespected his administrator, finally he was removed because it was proved that I wasn't lying. We were told he wouldn't be put back in my room.

And why would I lie? I have a 19 year career on the line. I have 19 years of working with students, some who were discipline problems. Why would I lie about one student? What really galls me is how my complaint with this one student has been completely disregarded. He was the only student whom I referred to the office last year. Actually, I think in the past three years. Most problems I can handle. I am galled that I, a veteran teacher, am degraded and disrespected by a student as well as administration, forced to endure repeated harrassment from him and his friends. And nothing is done about it.

So what was my mistake today? I checked my rosters to see how many students I'll soon have, and there he is, again, on my roster after we were promised he would be moved to another classroom. I just don't have energy for him. He's not worth fighting. There's no way he'll ever let go of his hatred of me, and I know I can't let go of mine. This is not a good life lesson for him. I'm not sure what the purpose is with keeping him in my room, but no one is winning. No one is happy. And I don't believe either of us can take one more year with each other.

As summer draws to a close...

Time off...I spend the last two months of school anticipating summer vacation. Freedom. Sleeping in. Staying up late. Swimming. At the beginning of May, a running list of everything I want to do begins to form in my head. Clean the car. Clean the house. Go through closets. And then it is June.

June is spent taking naps. Taking it easy. Putting off what needs to be done in order to relax and restore myself. I haul my briefcase to my library on the last day of school and throw it down. It won't be touched until August. June is usually our first camping trip. We try to get to a pool at least once in June, but the weather is usually too unpredictable to go. My son and I dance a dance of synchronization, aligning ourselves with one another after a  hectic school year. We sit on the porch. We lay in the chaise lounges. We ride our bikes in circles in the middle of the day.

And then there's July! Time for another camping trip, hitting the swimming pools, picnics in the park. It's too hot to lay outside or ride our bikes in the middle of the day. July is a month of frenzied activity. We clean our closets and the basement, readying ourselves for another busy year. We take daytrips to see grandparents or go to museums. Of course, there's a movie or two to be seen. Naps are no longer a priority; we are rested and have energy! By the end of July, we're buying school supplies and some clothing for the two of us as we realize how little time we have left of summer. There are a multitude of errands, doctor and dentist appointments, and taking care of yearly obligations. July ends too quickly for us.

The beginning of August marks another round of birthday season for us. Family get-togethers. Numerous questions about when we return to school. We bid summer a sad farewell. We grow weepy and anxious about the upcoming school year. I have multiple nightmares about my new students and the new year. My son grows anxiously quiet. The lists we made at the beginning of summer are complete, or nearly so, giving us time to do a few last fun activities before our time is constrained within the confines of a schedule.

We sit on the porch. We watch the birds. We read books or play silly games. We laugh. We relish the time the two of us have with one another, knowing how precious and valued it is. Thoughts of summer sustain us during the tougher months of January and February, where we begin to plan, just a little, our next summer vacation.

I'll Love Lucy forever

Each Monday morning during the summer, we'd traipse over to my grandmother's house because it was her day off and we--my mom, my brother, and me--were going to spend the day with her. We called my grandmother "Nana" because it means "Grandma" in Italian. On Nana's day off, she had a routine she religiously followed: game shows, coffee, a cigarette, and plucking her chin hairs. While she finished her routine, she'd often turn on the television for us...and the only thing on-if we didn't want to watch some game show--was I Love Lucy and my love for Lucy was born.

From the baking bread episode where Lucy decided to make homemade bread but used too much yeast and it exploded out of the oven, to the episode where Lucy pretended to be a princess from some little heard-of country, to the episodes where the Ricardos and the Mertzes were in Hollywood, she could always make me laugh. I loved Lucille Ball's willingness to do whatever it took for the laughs. She didn't care if she had a fake nose that was on fire, or she blacked out her teeth and acted as though she was dumb, she performed with wild abandon and made me laugh.

In the 1950s, the expectation of women in post-war America was to be stay at home moms, content with their husbands, families, and recipes. And then there was Lucy. Lucy loved Ricky and little Ricky, but she also loved show business and performing. She was not completely content with her lot in life, and she schemed episode after episode of ways to improve her life. What about the episode where Lucy and Ethel bottled and sold their own dressing? Or when they went to work in the chocolate factory? Of course, there is the iconic "Vitameatavegamin" episode where Lucy hawks vitameatavegamin. Naturally, the episodes where Lucy schemed her way into one of Ricky's shows are some of the funniest and showcase her immense talent.

I still enjoy I Love Lucy, no matter how many times I've seen the show. She's funny without being vulgar, talented--using her face and physical comedy, and an incredible business woman who surrounded herself with equally talented actors. And while I'm not a 1950s woman, I appreciate Lucy for the talent she had and the laughs she delivers today.

My birthday, my way

When I was younger, I had a number of fantasies regarding the celebration of my birth. Due to too many soap operas, movies, television shows, and the influence of my peers, I had high hopes of what others would do FOR me on my birthday. Breakfast in bed, time at a spa, numerous bouquets of flowers, fabulous presents, and all attention devoted TO ME on MY SPECIAL DAY! Or so I thought.

Sadly, year after year, I was soundly disappointed in my birthday. It seemed like the only person my birthday mattered to was me.  Yes, I'd have the requisite dinner out with my parents, and maybe some cake. There would be some cards, mostly funny, and a few gifts, which grew fewer and fewer as the years passed. By the end of the day, I would go to bed disheartened and unhappy.

A few years ago, I realized that my birthday was important...to me. Each birthday provides me an opportunity to recall my previous year, to celebrate the coming year, and to be grateful that I am healthy and alive. Because of the importance of my birthday, and the fact that I love the idea that each person has one special day, I decided to make a change in my thinking. Rather than rely on others to celebrate me, I decided to make my birthday special instead.

My husband plans my birthday dinner and knows how much I love ice cream cake, so he takes care of that aspect of my birthday. And naturally, he either makes me a wonderful gift or buys me a wonderful gift, which is always a lovely surprise. He also knows how much I love cards, so there's always a funny or a serious card; some years there is one of each. But the day is mine, and I want to celebrate it my way.

Several years ago, I decided that I wanted to spend the day at the art museum and have lunch downtown. Last year, I had my hair done and a massage. This year, I went hiking on one of my favorite trails. Each year, different people celebrate with me. Each year, I have a wonderful birthday because I've taken control of the day rather than depend on others to do it for me.

A friend complained to me, not long ago, that her husband never seems to get her birthday right, and I mentioned my way of thinking. I no longer understand why we must put so much pressure on our loved ones to 'get' our birthdays 'right.' My husband takes no offense to my belief in celebrating my birthday my way, and if he can come with me, he does.

I now look forward to my birthdays and delight in planning my day. The pressure is off my husband to plan a 'right' birthday for me. And in the end, I revel in the fact that I am another year older, hopefully wiser, and--with any luck--happier.

Insurance is a rip off!

Anyone with health issues is held hostage by their insurance carriers. One of my favorite insurance policies is the amount of money each body part is assigned by an insurance provider. Once someone reaches the maximum amount for a specific body part, like a shoulder, the provider will no longer pay for treatment. Physical therapists have to deal with this issue all the time. A person is obviously in need of treatment, but the insurance company will no longer pay because the person has 'tapped out' the amount of money allotted for that particular part.

What about those who have preexisting conditions or who are denied coverage for an illness they don't have? My husband had a staph infection three years ago. He is completely cured, and yet he cannot get health insurance because he's been flagged as having 'chronic arthritis of the shoulder.' He's been trying to get ahold of someone who knows how to fix this incorrect diagnosis. He pays an exorbitant amount of money each month for a paltry insurance plan that covers very little.

My current insurance plan is a huge waste of money...at least for me. I have the privilege of paying for the plan each month, and then I have a 2000.00 deductible to make. This means my prescriptions are full price! If I need testing or blood work I pay full price. On top of my cut in pay, this is ridiculous.

After my husband and I have had several necessary surgeries, we've also learned about insurance negotiations. Insurance companies negotiate the price they'll pay for treatment and surgeries, so doctors get hosed when it comes to billing for their services. It's no wonder doctors have more patients than they can care for, or the fact most double and triple book appointments. They can't provide quality care because they're trying to cover their losses from insurance companies. Because insurance companies will only pay so much, I've found that doctors are also passing those differences onto their patients. Negotiation is unfair to both doctors and patients; those who win are insurance companies. Since insurance companies make it difficult for doctors to make a living, it's no wonder many have to join existing practices, or they form practices with established doctors. They cannot afford to have their own offices. My last surgeon, for example, belongs to two different practices and has three different offices. I don't think we spent more than three minutes with one another over the course of multiple appointments. He doesn't have time for patient care as he's too busy trying to cover his overhead.

What about those of us in the midle class or lower class? Many of us are barely making ends meet as it is, plus we have to pay for our insurance and additional costs from treatment. Some cannot afford insurance so they allow months or years to pass without seeing a doctor. I knew a man who had uncontrolled diabetes and whose foot had gangrene. He lost two toes but had no way to pay for his hospital stay or his medication.

I don't understand how we can live in the US and feel fine with our healthcare system. Many argue that it isn't their problem, but it is. We passively allow insurance companies to dictate our medical needs and treatments, and in the end, we lose. Being denied a prescription the doctor determines I need because the insurance company determines I don't is wrong. Denied coverage for preexisting conditions like high blood pressure or diabetes is wrong. Creating a system that makes insurance unaffordable for millions of Americans is wrong.

The question is: what do we do about it?

Doing what is right isn't always what's easiest

Yesterday, my son's great grandmother died. Today, the most beautiful white kitten, with gold tipped ears and a gold tail, and gorgeous blue eyes showed up at our house. I don't know why it chose our house, but I do know we wanted to keep it. But what if it belonged to someone and got out of the house accidentally? What if it was sick? What if we kept it? Ultimately, we decided to take it to the animal shelter because it might belong to someone or a coyote might eat it.

My son cried and cried regardless of me telling him to not get attached to it. He got attached to it, of course. He named it, "Kitty" of course. It was thin so we gave it some milk. It drank nearly an entire bowl! Kitty climbed a giant tree and wouldn't come down when we were going to take it to the shelter, so we left it. I had secret hopes its owner would show up and claim it. Upon our return, it was waiting for us in the tree.

The right action was to take the kitten to the animal shelter. I know it was. I also know it felt really crappy to do so. Out of all the homes on the block, this kitten found our house and wanted to be part of our family. But we already have a dog who isn't fond of cats, a father who is allergic to and who dislikes cats, and limited funds to take care of another animal. And while my son was entranced with the kitten, I knew that 'love' would wear off quickly, and cat care would become the responsibility of me or my husband. Could we do that?

Ultimately, the answer was no. Kitty, riding in a basket with a beach towel, sat next to my son on the way to the shelter. I tried once more to get my husband to agree to keep it. I drove slowly and took a circuitous route as I worked on him. To no avail. Finally, the animal shelter was in sight, and my son and I kept talking to Kitty, convincing Kitty and us that this was the right decision for us all.

I held that warm bundle of gorgeousness until an employee came and took her. I felt her purring with contentment and saw her shake with fear as she left us. To make us feel better, I gave the shelter my phone number if no one wants her.

Although the decision sucked, it was the right decision. At least, I hope so.

The travesty of nursing homes

There is no other way to describe the smell of death than to liken it to a nursing home. They smell of unwashed bodies, cleaning supplies, and urine/feces. I hate walking into them, and I feel terribly sorry for those who must live there.

Why do we relegate our elderly citizens to spend their last years in nursing homes? Shouldn't they be with their families as they grow closer to death? Aren't families responsible for caring for their elderly members? Not necessarily. While I pity those who must live in nursing homes, there is an unfortunate need for them. As we live longer, we have more medical needs than in years past. Families often make the difficult decision to place parents and/or grandparents in nursing homes because, for one reason or another, they cannot take care of them. However, I take issue with the quality of life, the quality of care provided in nursing homes.

An element to nursing homes that bothers me are some of the employees. Clothes are stolen, jewelry, snack foods, lotion...nothing seems off limits to them. When my grandmothers were living, if that's what it's called, in nursing homes, my mother would write my grandmothers' names in permanent marker with large letters across all their clothes to make sure they didn't 'lose' them. Some employees were rude to the residents, or treated them abusively. Much like any job dealing with the public, nursing homes don't seem to pay well, but that isn't the faults of the residents, some of whom are paying (or their families are paying) 9000.00 or more a month to have them there.  Yet it seems that many employees feel no guilt by stealing from residents or by treating them abominably. Many residents don't know their own names and have reverted to childish behaviors, which should be something nursing home employees consider. And just because "Granny" sleeps 14 hours a day doesn't give an employee the right to help him or herself to "Granny's" snacks, jewelry, lotion, or clothes.

Walking into nursing homes depresses me. Ironically, most nursing homes have cheery decorations, flowers, and other welcoming aspects, but watching once-vibrant and active people deteriorate is difficult to see. Occuptational therapists, for example, take advantage of whomever is footing the bill for the home. When my grandmother was in a nursing home, the OT was working to help her get back to living independently. Seriously? My grandmother was having mini-strokes regularly and would never be able to live independently again, which the OT would have known had she/he taken the time to read her chart. My grandmother wasn't an isolated incident. Not only that but we never knew how long the OT was going to stay at that home. My grandmother would make a little progress, the OT would leave, another would come in and begin a new treatment program. It was ridiculous!
Nursing homes are businesses, yes, but it's unfortunate that we have a need for them.

Frustrations with Fat

I'm tired...all the time. I'm having trouble sleeping at night. I'm fat. I exercise five times a week. I watch what I eat. I can't lose weight, but I can quickly gain it. My body isn't cooperating with my mind. While I adore my family doctor, I am frustrated that he hasn't been more aggressive with these complaints. Happily, I told all of this to my ob-gyn, and we already have an action plan in place to find out why I'm struggling so much.

Granted, part of my sleep issues have to do with grief. So does my weight. But so many people report having more energy and sleeping better as they exercise more, and I find the opposite: I'm struggling to wake up and I see little change in my energy level. However, after three years on WeightWatchers, tracking what I eat, I'm still losing and gaining the same five pounds. I don't want to give up on WeightWatchers, but I know that I have to lose 70 pounds. It's a necessity for me to stave off diabetes and any other weight-related health issues I could have. I enjoy riding my bike; I enjoy walking and hiking. I don't enjoy the weight around my belly and hips.

I'll go in next week for some bloodwork, and my doctor has ordered some specialized tests, especially to see if I'm anemic or if something is going on with my thyroid. She's given me a recommendation to visit a diet center, one with a doctor, nurse, etc., that could help me get a jump start on losing weight. I appreciate her proactive stance on these issues. With luck, this will work.

A perception exists that fat people don't care about themselves. Or that they are too lazy to exercise and eat good food. What if, however, a fat person does exercise? Cooks healthy foods? Eats fruit and vegetables? Drinks water, not sodas or alcohol? Being fat is a medical problem for a number of people. But there's such a stigma to fat, such stereotypes around fat, that fat people are often afraid to say something to their doctors. It isn't unusual for doctors to insult their fat patients, catering to the stereotype that their patients are fat because they are lazy. So we fat people continue to wonder what's wrong with us and assume we must be defective in some way since we can't seemingly lose weight. Then fat becomes an esteem problem, fed by the prejudices and stereotypes that exist.

Perceptions of Working Moms

When I was pregnant, I remember different conversations with other expectant moms about whether I would work outside my home after my child came. If I answered affirmatively I was treated to lectures about this decision. It's been ten  years since my pregnancy, and I'm still not immune to the stereotypes and perceptions of working mothers.

The first stereotype of working moms is that we aren't thinking of our children, we are only thinking of ourselves. Stay at home moms will tell me how 'blessed' they are because they can stay home with their children. While I agree to a certain extent...they are blessed to be able to make that decision...I am also blessed. I have a good job that affords me time with my son. My employment allows me to pay the mortgage on our house as well as most of the bills. My employment has come in handy when my husband lost his job, or when my husband goes a week or two without a paycheck. Each day as I drive to work, I'm thinking about my son, hoping he has a good day, worrying about his tests or the playground bullies. As I hurry to pick him up in the afternoons, I can't wait to hear about his day.

Another stereotype that I hear is that women work to afford fancy homes, clothes, cars, or vacations. Not true in my case. My last exotic vacation was my honeymoon to Victoria, BC. I haven't been to Mexico or the Caribbean, I have a regular home in a regular neighborhood, and I most definitely do not have fancy cars. In fact, I celebrated the fact that I recently paid off my car. I work to afford my home, the clothes my son constantly seems to need, and to pay our bills. When we do take time as a family, we go to places that are nearby, where we can bring our camper (also almost paid off!), and where we can do fun, outdoor activities. Once a year, I buy a new and expensive bra, and all my clothes come from Target or Kohls.

Another misperception of working moms is that we don't work as hard as stay at home moms. Excuse me? I work 8-10 hours a day at a job, and then I come home to laundry, cooking, cleaning, homework, and yard work. On Saturdays I run errands and grocery shop. When I can grab a free moment, I like to relax, just like all moms. However, while I do agree that stay at home moms work hard, I don't see how we can say they work harder than moms who work outside the home. Our work is both similar and different. Both groups cook, clean, do laundry, shop, but one group has a second full time job on top of their first full time job.

I've been told by stay at home moms that they want to be the ones who raise their children and who don't want strangers witnessing milestones. Seriously? My son has a sense of independence, which served him well this past year when he switched schools.  I and his father have raised our son, not strangers. We are with him when he's sick, we go to all doctors appointments; I have held him when he has his shots. He crawled and walked for us; we worked to potty train him. I don't feel like I've missed out on quality time with my son because I have a job. Am I healthier mentally because I work? I am. My son is too because he is used to me not always being there to pick him up. He has learned to stand on his own feet. Ultimately, that's what I want for my son...to be an independent and functioning adult.

There are plenty other perceptions and stereotypes of working moms, but these are a few that I hear regularly. I don't know why stay at home moms have to criticize those of us who work, but I wish they'd stop. I respect women (and men) who make the choice to stay home with their children. It's difficult to be a full time caretaker to children, spouses, and sometimes, aging parents.  But instead of knocking our 'sisters' down if they work outside of the home--and vice versa--again, shouldn't we support them? They are doing what they think is best for their children and themselves.

Striving for Perfection

I'd like to begin by announcing that I'm not perfect. I've never been perfect, nor will I ever be perfect. And yet, I live in a culture that preaches perfection; it's all around me...on television, in magazines, on the internet. I can't escape this idea of being perfect, which, for someone as aware of my imperfections as I am, has caused me anxiety throughout my life.

Perfection is an unreal idea. What is perfect? No matter how 'perfect' someone or something is, there are flaws, problems, annoyances. Actually, I think the word 'perfect' is overused, similarly to the word 'like.' I've never had perfect skin, for example, but I'm told repeatedly of what to buy that will give me perfect skin. Actually, if I had my own personal photoshop that I could carry around with me, erasing skin flaws, maybe then I'd have perfect skin. Since that isn't possible, I take good care of my skin, hoping that'll be enough. My body is far from perfect, but it functions pretty well. My health is good, and my physical abilities have improved dramatically. We recently hiked into a place called Zapata Falls, which is only 1/2 mile but at 9400 feet above sea level. When I did it several years ago, I could hardly breathe and had to stop repeatedly because it exhausted me too much. This time, I hiked all the way up without stopping and without panting like a dog. My body has flaws, but I have good health.

I also wonder about the notion of being a perfect wife. My husband has flaws, and so do I. We recognize and appreciate the flaws within one another, but we don't necessarily force the other to change. One of my husband's flaws is his Chicken Little attitude toward money. I try to keep track of our money so I don't have to hear him ranting and raving about how our financial sky is falling. We've talked about this flaw of his, and he knows how I feel when he is upset about money. To his credit, he tries to temper his reactions to our finances, and I try to help by recording what we spend. It's not perfect, but it works for us. As for one of my flaws, I like to cuss. A lot. Most people don't expect me to drop F-bombs everywhere, and it's fun for me to shock them. My husband hates when I cuss and has told me so. Out of respect for him, I do my best to watch my language in front of him. Also, I don't work at home and am, in fact, a lazy housekeeper. I hate to cook, but when I do cook, I try to make delicious  meals. I don't know where my husband's slippers are, and I'm more likely to be found reading the newspaper than him. However, we are--with all our imperfections--perfect for one another as we accept, respect, and love the other.

Striving for perfection has, over the years, caused me a great deal of anxiety and stress. There are better wives, mothers, daughters than me, but I have a lot to offer as well. There are far better teachers than me, but I work hard to be good for my students. There are plenty of skinny women or fit women, but I can only worry about me. And isn't that what is wrong with the idea of perfection? I will never be tall, skinny, or have the right length of hair. I will never wear trendy clothes, live in a trendy place, or visit trendy restaurants. I can only do justice to who I am, what I have, and find peace within myself.