oh, Whitney.

I feel like everyone is dancing around this topic and so I’m going to just come out and say it. Whitney Houston’s passing is sad, to be sure. She was an icon and had a wonderful voice, of course. But she was a drug addict with opportunities that most people would NEVER have to clean herself up, and she couldn’t succeed.  Social media has kept us informed of the situation and has given everyone and his brother a platform to mourn Whitney…which is, I suppose, what social media is for.  But I can’t help to wonder what people would be saying if Whitney had been arrested, again. Or if she had hurt someone else as a result of her addiction?  How would people be responding if this situation was different?

I can think of three good friends who have gotten sober this year. Three. And these are people who decided finally that life would be better without drugs and alcohol. These are all people who don’t have the celebrity and the access to help like Whitney did.  These are people who don’t have the kind of money that Whitney did. People who didn't have Oprah Winfrey as a friend – people who were simply tired of having the proverbial monkey on their backs.  The public needs to hear stories like this – not another celebrity death story again. It’s sad, it truly is – I’m a human being and would never wish harm to people, but I can’t believe that this story is shocking to ANYONE. Whitney Houston has been a parody of herself for a long, long while. Her death is tragic – to the daughter she leaves behind. Not to the people mourning her in their Facebook status.  Tomorrow, they will move on and forget all about Whitney. Next weekend at the bars they’ll sing her hits karaoke style.

It’s just sad to me that the media won't focus on the people who are trying – and succeeding – at getting themselves sober.

flow it, show it long as God can grow it

I’m so done with school and writing curriculum right now that I just can’t possibly think of anything original to write. BUT. But…I thought I could hold myself accountable by posting something totally trivial and shallow to everyone but myself. A few weeks ago, while visiting my sister in law in San Francisco, we began talking about hair and how she grew hers out in the past few years. I’ve been toying with the thought of growing mine for ages, but after we talked about it, I decided that it was time for a change in my follicles.

Hair. People place such high standards on hair. They write songs about it. There is a musical about it. Believe me, people are judging you for your coiffed ‘do. Or your roots. Or your bad home color job. Or your unwashed, messy bedhead. Trust me, even though I hear the, “I wish I could wear my hair that short!” comment over and over again, what I really hear in my head is, “good lord, your hair is SO short. I can see your wrinkled neck so much better now. You really look like a soccer mom!” And I love that the only people who ever comment on my hair in an absolutely positive way every. single. time. are black women. Probably because they recognize me as the one who got away. I swear I was born to the wrong race.

I digress. My point is that I am growing out this ‘do. Partly because it’s just time for something new, and partly because last night my kids got a set of Polly Pockets and I look vaguely like one of them. The one named Rick. Before too long, I’ll be old and I’ll be expected to have short, old lady hair. Not that I think my hair is old lady-ish now – in fact, I think it’s pretty fun. But, it’s time for a change. It’s time for me to be something other than the girl with the SUPER SHORT hair. And if I don’t have time to write anything for myself these days, at least I can take pictures of my progress. Please hold me to this – tell me I look amazing – even when you see the picture that makes you want to cry out, “CUT IT OFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!”  Anyone who has ever grown out the shortest of short cuts knows, I’m going to need some support. And I’ll take all I can get. 

hair project - week one

worry wart

Today began quietly.  Like any other day, really, until I went to wake Lucy up and she rolled over and said to me, “I don’t think I can do this.”  It progressively got worse, highlighted with my carrying her upstairs to brush her teeth (she refused) and holding her while she bawled and shook, saying over and over again that she “just didn’t feel well and couldn’t possibly go to school.”  This is how many of our days have started lately, and it’s hard for me to write about it because it’s so raw right now, but I feel like I have to.  I’ve written before about Lucy and her anxiety, but somehow at six years old, she’s found new and different things that trigger it, and we are yet again searching for answers to this situation.

When she finally got out the door this morning (and before the two subsequent phone calls from her teacher and the nurse, each saying she was fine but needed to talk to me…and each supporting Lucy to the best of their abilities) I sat and cried.  I cried because it’s the week before Christmas and my six-year-old daughter is miserable – not just miserable but just plain sad.  I cried because I somehow feel responsible for her emotions, even though I know deep down that I have very little control there.  I cried because I knew I’d have to finally break down and call our pediatrician and try to explain to him what in the world was going on.  Has been going on.  And finally, I cried because my sweet baby girl is six. Six years old.  Way too young to have these feelings, right?

I’m not going to pretend that I know anything about depression or anxiety in the clinical sense of those terms.  I only know that I was a very anxious child.  I pushed so many of those memories back into the recesses of my brain – back where I’d never have to pull them out again…until this week.  I was a worrier, I worried myself into barfing, I was homesick even with my parents right down the street.  I put my parents through hell, and now I guess I’m getting paid back. I would, however, like to state for the record that if payback is a bitch, I get it and I’d like this to stop.  I understand but this is enough. 

The thing is, I’m trying to toe the line between giving Lucy the acknowledgement that she needs to know her feelings are valid and real and telling her she’s being silly.  The one memory I have of being that scared, anxious kid was feeling like I was at fault for feeling those things, and when I couldn’t control them, how could I possibly be to blame for them? What a lonely thing for a little girl to feel.  I remember that clearly, and I’m trying to show Lucy that her feelings matter while also trying to figure out how to get her beyond them.  We met with our pediatrician, are meeting with the school counselor and are also meeting with a behavioral psychiatrist as soon as they can get her in. 

Why am I telling this story? Simply because I want people to know that it’s not unheard of for young kids to have these issues – they are real and need to be taken seriously.  I realize that one day Lucy might look back and be mortified that her mother gave away her secrets – sold her out for a blog post – but instead I hope she knows it’s just because I love her and have to write in order to sort out my own feelings about this.  Oh, sweet, sweet Lucy B…one day I hope we can look back and laugh at this day.

fart sandwiches.

So, I've not posted in so long that I forgot my password. Blogger kindly told me "you changed your password THREE months ago." Just like that.  Thanks, Blogger.  Life is insane here, and tonight I'm sitting in bed while my eldest child is laying on the floor next to me getting up to barf every few minutes.  I called this post 'fart sandwiches'. I usually say poop sandwiches when things suck, because you can really sink your teeth into a turd, but this is more elusive suckage. The barfing? Total shit - I'm going to let you in on a secret: I FUCKING hate barf. Hate it. I have anxiety about people getting sick. Seriously. I'm happy to say that today has taught me it doesn't matter at all - someone is always going to barf on your shoes in life.  Might as well be your cute kid. And, because there are a lot of other elusive suckage issues going on, I just thought I would share something I wrote for a class instead. 

I'll preface this by saying that I've been taking the world's worst internet class.  The professor has asked us to write 250 words weekly about articles or books she's asked us to read. Now, if you know me (and if you're reading this blog, chances are you know enough about me to believe this) I can't write 250 words. TWO HUNDRED FIFTY WORDS is for pussies.  It's like asking me to write 5 sentences about something that I could write a book about. And the worst part is that no matter how much I write (trust me: over 250 words. every. single. week) the professor has not ONCE given me personal feedback. Ever. Which simultaneously makes me want to punch her in the face and write like eight pages just to see if she's paying attention.  I digress. So, for the final project we were asked to write the usual 250 words about the "state of education" or what we as educators will find most challenging in our future.  Again.  Something I could write a book about.  But today, I read a friend's Facebook status that read something about getting her K-4th grader ready for college and I just had to share this. I figure if the dummy professor isn't reading it, I should at least share it with you all.

I seriously hope that none of you have a barfing child anytime soon.  And if you do, that you have a large amount of wine to fill up on while you're holding the hair out of the puke. I figure it's killing the germs...at least for me. Right? Enjoy:

I have started to write this for about three weeks in my head.  I start, think I know what I’m going to say, and then something else happens either in the media or in my job as a teacher to add fuel to my fire.  I believe that the biggest challenge that educators face is a generation of children who would like to be spoon-fed the answers, are not able to conceptualize, who get frustrated when asked to think critically, and many of whom are unable to make informed statements about anything they didn’t first hear from someone else.  In the past few weeks and months, I have had conversations with educators from all walks of life and from all different teaching backgrounds and sadly, I feel like we all say the same things – we are worried about kids. 

Naturally, we teach in a society where we are forced to think about funding and testing and all the other frustrations that those go along with, but while they are frustrations, they aren’t really all that new or different.  There is always, always going to be red tape in education.  Always.  It’s time to turn our focus toward something that we CAN fix.  Just today, I read about the number one worst baby toy in 2011 – an electronic device similar to an iPad.  For an infant.  And I wonder why children come into my preschool classroom and don’t know how to PLAY.  It’s been my experience over my ten years as a preschool teacher that children are more and more unable to be in open-ended play situations without being guided in some way or another.  I’m a preschool teacher and part of the joy of my job is that it’s so child driven.  I get to do what the kids want to do and make my lesson plans based on their interests.  Recently, though, I’ve noticed a trend toward more teacher led activities – because the children can’t seem to come up with ideas on their own.  When I ask, “what do you want to learn about?” I get blank stares. I want to say to them, “listen up! This is the last time it’s going to be like this – someone is going to get to tell you WHAT to learn for the rest of your life beyond this point!”  It’s sad and shocking and it’s no wonder these same children are failing in grade school and beyond. 

I believe it comes down to being an advocate for these children rather than trying to place blame.  It’s hard work, for sure, but it becomes an issue of advocating for play in early childhood classrooms (early childhood means up to and including the age of EIGHT) and for different approaches in teaching older students.  More play, less rote memorization. More writing, less homework.  More questioning their opinions, less teaching them to fill in the right answer.  While I know that I am starry eyed in some ways about this, I do believe that we can change the future of American education.  I’m not certain yet how that will be done, but I do know that I will be a part of that work in some capacity.

back up.

I’ve been pretty vocal the past few days about throwing my back out, and I’ve had a lot of advice – from a lot of people.  I completely appreciate it.  Really.  But lots of people were asking the root of my back issues, and so, very briefly, I wanted to explain.  I danced for years, and years, and years…on cement floor.  Oh, it was covered in tile, but all that did was make my tap shoes sound better.  Years of leaping and jete-ing landing on shitty floors did a number on my spine.  Then, about 8 years ago, Steve and I were on our way to meet my now sister-in-law and her then husband for dinner (this is only noteworthy because I like to think about how long ago this was and how much has changed for Kelley and me since this day!).  At the intersection of Oak Street and 55^th Street in Kansas City, a VERY young teen-aged driver on a cell phone ran the red light and crashed directly into the driver’s side door of our brand new Nissan Altima.  I was driving.  I was wearing a seatbelt, but the impact of that wreck sent me sideways into the passenger seat – and knocked my spine into some state of, well… I don’t know any better way to say that the wreck completely jacked up my spine. 

The MRI I had following the wreck showed two severely goofy discs in my spine – the L5 and the S1 – or the lowest two discs near the tailbone.  One of those discs was bulging, and the other was degenerative.  Probably the degenerative disc was a result of the concrete floors from my tappin’ days, and the bulging was a result of that dumb ass teenager on her cell phone.  Regardless, those results were enough to warrant physical therapy and several facet injections – which numbed the nerve endings around the two discs so that it wasn’t as painful when they rubbed up against my muscles and whatever else was hanging out back there around my discs.  Aaaaand…those didn’t work.  I found that yoga helped – really anything that kept my core strong helped my back.  I also found that regular visits to my chiropractor (whom I adore and would recommend to anyone – just ask) helped my spine.  Other than that, I really had no control over it, other than watching how (and who) I lift, and how I bend – which has proven very interesting in my profession.

Fast forward to this past Friday afternoon.  I was getting ready to get on the road to St. Louis to visit Steve’s parents when I went to put on my pants and wham – out when the back.  Which might not have been that big of a deal, but riding in a car for four hours there and back, as well as sleeping on a bed that wasn’t mine, as well as having a coughing and nose blowing fit, and I was a steaming hot mess by Sunday afternoon.  This is where everyone has an opinion: get surgery, get and MRI, get to bed! All of these are valid (and thank you for your concern) but long story short, here is the plan. I saw my chiropractor yesterday – he adjusted me, because part of my issue is that one of my legs is also a bit longer than the other.  I’m a mutant.  He believes that when I bent to put on my pants the other day (why couldn’t this have been a better story, like I was lifting a couch or something?) I tore some of the scar tissue around those discs leaving my nerves and muscles in some sort of battle.  Then, he did some deep tissue massage, which felt terrible and left me with what feels like a bruised ass, but has definitely worked because I can feel my right leg today.  Finally, he used some really fantastic gel on my lower back, which numbed the area for a while.

Tomorrow I go to my general practice doctor (whom I also adore – but, no, this isn’t an advertisement for my medical preferences) and I’m to request a prescription for a cortisone and steroid mix that should take the swelling down in my back.  After a week, I get to see my chiropractor again, and if that hasn’t helped I get to have another MRI and then look into more injections. Whew! Aren’t you glad you asked about my back?

why I write

The National Day on Writing is on October 20th.  I wrote this in honor of that day.  You can read more about it here.

I write because if I didn’t, I would certainly not be here today. I write because it’s the best and cheapest form of therapy out there.  I write because I have something important to say, even if it’s something as simple as, “I’m angry”, or “I’m frustrated” or. “I’m so proud”.  I write because I don’t know how better to express myself, it’s the way I deal with the world around me.  I remember writing pages and pages of letters in high school, it’s probably the first time that I remember feeling like putting pen to paper would solve something.  I wrote to boyfriends, my parents, my friends.  I wrote to heal broken hearts, to soothe my angry soul, to process my parent’s divorce.  I wrote because I thought people might think me crazy if I told them aloud the things that went on in my head. Now, I don’t care what people think of me – I know I’m crazy.  But, now that I’m not an angsty teenager anymore (I’m more like an angsty adult) I still write to process things: my relationships, my marriage, my children, the path I’m on at any given moment. 

I write because one day I want my kids to look back and know that what they said and did mattered to me.  That I wrote down their experiences and I laughed with them and at them and I noticed all the little things that they did.  I write because earlier this week Lucy asked me why kids remember so much and grown ups don’t.  I told her it’s because adults have more years and more memories clogging their brains, but really I write so that I DON’T forget everything that happens – even the little, seemingly unimportant day to day things. 

I write because some days I think if I say the words out loud that I write down on paper, I might curl up and cry.  I write because I’m one of those people who look around me at the grocery store and thinks, “I’m the ONLY ONE who knows what I’m thinking right now.” I think about that a lot – how when I look over at my husband I only see what I see – I will never know what is going on in his head – even if I think I do.  It’s such a lonely thought and so I write because it keeps me from losing my mind.  I write because I’m so busy that writing seems a little like I’m talking to a friend – something I don’t get to do nearly enough anymore. I write because it’s in my DNA.  It’s in the very fiber of my being.  I write because I can't imagine what I would do if I couldn't.

I (still) do.

Today I made myself sit down and write about all the things that I’ve not let myself say in the past few months.  I knew this past weekend, on the eve of this 10^th anniversary of 9/11, that something was wrong with me.  I was entirely more concerned about the state of my family than I was about what that terrible day would bring.  I’m just going to say this: marriage is hard.  Of all the things I wish I had known before I entered into my own marriage – I wish someone had said, “Kate, one day you will wake up and you will find you have lost important connections with the person laying next to you.”  This is not a post about my marriage unraveling.  It’s not – and I assure you that, God forbid that ever happens, I will not be writing about it on my blog.  It’s a post to say, I get it now. I understand that no one tells you those things because if they did, no one would get married. Sort of like if people told you the truth about childbirth, there would be way less children in this world. 

I get it.  Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about marriage.  My own, my parents’, Steve’s parents, the upcoming nuptials of a friend, that of a good friend who is living here in KC while her husband is working in another city for a few months.  And I just need to put it out there that this life that Steve and I have created is the hardest job I’ve ever had.  Recently, I started back teaching after a summer off, I also started grad school, and Steve is still working full time as well as teaching two nights a week at the KC Art Institute.  We also have a home we try to maintain, two young children, a dog…you get the picture. We hardly see each other, and lately we’ve not been very good at making all of the pieces fit in this difficult daily puzzle of our lives.  It’s like you think everything is running smoothly, or at least is at status quo, until reality tells you differently. 

One of the reasons I fell in love with Steve is that, while it might not happen all that often, he has the ability put it all out on the table and let you know how he feels.  I suck at that.  I will bottle up how I feel and get resentful and mean and ugly until I finally blow up.  It’s not a healthy way to live – and it’s not a healthy way to have a relationship.  I’m also really lazy. I’m not going to lie, I am super, super, way lazy – I would rather sit on my ass or keep to myself than do the hard work – including relationship work.  It’s hard to find time to compliment my husband – even if I DO love him and I DO appreciate him, finding times to tell him that is not my strong point.  It goes both ways, for sure, but at the end of the day when people have NEEDED stuff from me all day long, the last thing I think about doing is laying on the compliments.  I would much rather lay on the couch.

I'll also say selfishly that I pretty much hate keeping this house together while other people get to reap the benefits of being with my family - the babysitters, the teachers, the people my husband works with.  I feel like for all the driving, cooking, cleaning, laundry, general problem solving I do, I should get to enjoy the reward of being with my family, but right now, in this time - that just isn't happening.  Instead, other people get to enjoy the energy of my kids and my husband while at the end of each day, my kids are either already in bed when I get home from school, or Steve and I get to do the catch up game instead of really enjoying each other's company.  I hate that other people are getting the best of us, but I digress.

My point is that I’m trying to hold myself more accountable for doing the hard work.   I’m putting out there that I know my married friends are doing the same hard work that we are doing here and I respect you all immensely for it.  I’m not saying that there aren’t amazing things about my marriage – I love the life we have made with each other and with our children.  We started a relationship built upon laughter and we continue to do a lot of that – we are raising two amazing, hilarious little girls, and I think all things considered we do a pretty great job of it.  I also know that the rat race we are in right now is temporary and one day I'm sure I'll miss the hustle and bustle (to an extent!)  I just feel like people don’t like to talk about this and it’s been bothering me. So there. I said it for you.  You’re welcome.  Also, I should probably apologize for throwing my husband under the bus in order to prove my point.  So…I’m sorry, Steve.  See ya tomorrow!