TEN.

In the week during which the majority of my friends changed their Facebook profile pictures to the big red equal sign in support of same-sex marriage, my husband and I will celebrate a decade of our own marriage. As I scrolled through the sea of red tonight I couldn’t help but to think about marriage: my own, my parent’s, my friend’s, the hundreds of thousands of people out there who have been denied the right to marry the partner they have chosen.  I read a great article earlier today about parenting titled, “I quit.” And frankly, I wouldn’t be forthcoming if I didn’t tell you how often in my marriage those words crept into my head. Parenting is tough, indeed, but marriage is ridiculously hard work. Aside from being a mother, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And it’s not because the person I’m married to is some sort of tyrannical bastard. He’s pretty fucking awesome, if you didn’t already know.  It’s just that when you get married, you join up with someone and your life becomes their life and your stuff becomes their stuff. (Frankly, I should be the one apologizing to Steve, because getting my load of shit by way of marriage is kind of imbalanced and unfair to him, let’s be honest.)

I digress. It just seems to me that if you love someone enough to be ok with taking on their family, and their weird issues (like how much they might like shoe shopping, or how they might not really like cleaning as much as they seemed to before you got married, or how much they really, really like a certain really not-so-awesome sci-fi TV show, or how much they might like pro-wrestling…it’s real, I get it) then maybe we should just shut the fuck up and let them marry each other already.  I know enough stupid heterosexuals who are out there ruining their own marriages that it makes me want to cry out for my gay friends who just want to have their relationships recognized as real and meaningful – and most importantly, LEGAL. I used to think it was the white people who made everything challenging and ridiculous in this world. Now I’m starting to think it’s us straight married people.

It seems to me that the root of this stupid marriage debate is people getting real. Who are we to say we have things figured out? Who is bold enough to say that they have all the answers? If you say you do, you are lying. You don’t. It’s the people who are bigoted and frankly just scared who will tell you that marriage is only for a man and a woman. You know what I think? Marriage is for anyone who is brave enough to take another person, warts and all, and make them part of their own heart. I know I’m no sparkling gem. And my husband, while he’s pretty fucking awesome, is also pretty annoying sometimes. By law, I get to take him or leave him. Ten years ago I took him. And I would continue to choose him over and over again. I just want the same for my gay friends. Farting and all, they should be able to have a legal relationship with whatever dummy they choose. 

the day before the day

Tomorrow is the first day of school for my girls. Zoe will be starting kindergarten and Lucy will be a second grader. I could do the “where has the time gone?!” rant (which I’m doing internally, of course) or, I could share with you what happened at bedtime tonight. We try to read with the girls every night. Most nights we are pretty good about it, and tonight we read three books.  Three! (it's been a crazy week, three seems pretty astounding)  During A Bargain for Francis, Lucy leaned over and said, “man, that Thelma is rude.” I love that kid – she said exactly what I was thinking, only was way nicer about it. And then we read The Giving Tree.  I’ve read that book a ton of times and yet suddenly tonight I had some sort of epiphany about it. Perhaps I’m late to this party and you’re all like, “really? You’re JUST NOW getting that?” but I realized tonight that the tree is metaphor for parents.

I know.

I got all teary while reading because it occurred to me that this is my job. This letting go.  I raise my children to the point where I have to let someone else educate them as well. I must let them go in order for them to come back. It’s silly really, and I suppose I’m being a little over the top here.  But, as my girls head back for another year of school – the first where they are BOTH in grade school – I can’t help but to know how that tree feels. I’ve given my body to house theirs, my sleep to nurse them, my sanity to mother two children under two years apart. And in turn, they keep coming back for more. I want money. I want a house. I want a boat to go away from you. Someday, I know that they won’t want as much time with me, just like the boy and the tree – that they will have their own friends and need their own space. I see some of that happening already and it nearly takes my breath away. No houses or boats yet, but it’s all the same, really.

Tonight as I watched those two little sweet peas sleeping I could only think about how once I thought I might not make it through long, sleepless nights with them. Tonight I thought about how those little people are heading out into the world tomorrow. I like to think that even at five and seven they are pretty amazing and funny and smart and ready for whatever tomorrow holds. That, or they will teach their fellow students all about zombies and the Lord of the Rings and everyone will like them for that.  Either way, I think they are safe…it’s me I’m worried about. 

school's out for summahhhhh!!

Summer has officially begun at the W house. This weekend has included a new grill and copious amounts of barbeque, bringing out the girls' backyard pool, drinks with friends on the patio and dinner with good friends inside where it was much cooler sitting on our new dining room chairs! I haven't had time to write lately, or at least I've not given myself time. I'm hoping to change that soon. The girls will be in summer "camp", I am taking two classes this summer, and I am only teaching two days a week, which will seem like a huge vacation.  Really, I just wanted to say that I haven't forgotten about this blog and the 5 people who read it. OH! Also? My hairs are growing! See? That is all. Carry on.

oh, hi.

I don’t have any time anymore for ANYTHING. No time to write, no time to spend on anything but family, school, work, laundry, cooking, cleaning (this one is debatable) and stressing over the overwhelmingly full calendar. So…I thought I would give you an update on the past month or so. Here’s roughly what’s happened:

·      I listened to my children fight. A LOT. I heard things like, “you’re not my sister anymore! Get out of this house!” and, “you treat Zoe like she’s 10 and I’m the baby!” Also, the ass-kissing has begun. When one child is in trouble, the other has learned the trick of being sappy sweet to get on our good side. Today, Lucy even asked me if I could get her a snack – but ONLY when I had the time.  HA! 

·      We got a fish. The fish died. This story is only good because the fish was teetering on the edge of death for about a week before he croaked. The week before we went out of town, of course. And so, I left instructions for the girl who was dog-sitting to give me a call if the fish died so I could prepare the girls. We were headed to Colorado (another story) and got to about Lawrence, KS before Courtney called to say the fish was belly up. He’d waited just long enough for her to arrive before he bit it. Thankfully, Courtney is technically a Universal Life minister – thanks to the interwebs – and she was able to give Bubbles Chippie Blue a fitting tribute before flushing him. 

·      Colorado. Where do I begin? Long story short – we were to drive to the mountains outside of Denver to celebrate my nephew’s first birthday with my sister and brother in law and her family. We got to Colorado on Saturday and smooched on each other long enough to pass around a stomach bug. We spent most of the trip in the hotel bathroom in a town with no grocery store or WalMart. Plus, Steve and I were both knocked for a loop (to put it nicely) because of the altitude. Man, I didn’t think it would affect me but it did. Between the barfs and the shits and trying to catch our breath, it pretty much stunk. Literally. Vacation re-do to come…

·       I had an x-ray of my back. Turns out, my discs are just as bad as they were 9 years ago (not sure what that means) but I also have bone spurs on my spine. I was scheduled for an MRI and told to not exercise. Wait. Were you wondering why I’ve gained so much weight? Not anymore! MRI on Monday the 9^th.  

·      Lucy has a loose tooth. It looks like an old kernel of corn hanging right in the center of her mouth. It’s awesome. We have bribed ear piercing, doll clothes, books. You name it. Her sister has taken to randomly punching at Lucy’s mouth to try to knock it out. I realize that eventually the tooth will come out on it’s own and that if she’s ok with it I need to let it go. But I can’t. 

·      I’ve decided that I actually DO like white wine. I know, this is news that can’t be exciting to anyone but me. I just figure, if I’m good at anything, it’s drinking, and that I should be an equal opportunity wino. 

·      My hair is still growing. Can you believe it? ELEVEN weeks without a haircut. I’m in that phase where I simultaneously want to rip it out and I’m proud of myself for coming this far…so it stays.

I’m not certain what else I can update on. I just mostly feel overwhelmed about 99% of the time and when I do sit down to write, I find that I’d better spend my time writing for school.  School. Which is done in just three weeks…at least until June. Hooray! I’ll leave you with this – last night a lovely older woman called our house to ask if I would be able to volunteer for the Obama campaign. I told her that while I supported the campaign I wouldn’t even be able to begin to help. I told her I worked full time, was in grad school and had two young children. She asked me, “do you sleep?” and my answer, quite honestly, was no. Nope. I don’t sleep. I lay down around midnight which is about how late I stay up to finish all of the work I can’t get done with kids underfoot, then I spend a chunk of time trying to wind down from the 8 bazillion things that happened that day, sleep about 3 hours and then wake up around 4am to worry about all the things that are to happen the NEXT day. Sleep is for pussies. And, there you have it! The last month of my life in 830 words or less. Ca-ching!

hair project, week three

The curls are back. It’s a good thing, really, as growing this dumpy mop of hair will be much easier if I can pass off the messiness as my curls. Also, this week I’ve been looking at old photos both at home and at work.  I’ve seriously had the same haircut for about 11 years now.  The only thing that has changed is the color – and man, there has been a lot of color. I’ve made myself a color appointment for mid-March and I am going to stay blond…it just fits me best, I think. In the meantime I have started a “hair” board on Pinterest. I love that site, and particularly because now all my inspiration for my ‘do is in one place. The only downside is that people keep saying to me, “I love all the short haircuts! We should get our hair cut together like that! Great haircuts!” For me, though, it’s NOT a cut – my hair is so damn short that most of those pictures are MONTHS of growth for me! OH! the best news? I found the stash of barrettes I'd put aside so long ago. Yay! I present, week 3 (which is actually a lie - it's been SIX whole weeks since I've had my hair cut.) Ta-da!

week three

valentimes

I spent yesterday wondering how or what I could have written differently in my last blog post. It bothered me that I set off such a firestorm of comments and I felt like I hadn’t conveyed my message in the right way. Even though I enjoy making people think and talk, I never intend my words to offend or upset people beyond that. That was yesterday...sleep offered up perspective and today my children are running around in their underwear (inside, of course, they've made a beach in my living room) enjoying the first snow day of the season. I’m done wondering what I could have done differently yesterday because, in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

Today I’ve been thinking about Valentine’s Day and how much emphasis people place upon it.  It’s always been ridiculous to me, even before I married the guy who earns his livelihood in the greeting card business.  I think about Valentine’s Days past, where we would transform shoeboxes into mailboxes with tissue and glitter and stickers, and we would wait for children to place notes inside.  Later, in high school, I remember watching who would have a carnation delivered during 3^rd hour. It was always, in both cases, a popularity contest disguised as something different. I’ve never seen the point in using one day a year to profess your love to someone.  At least I’ve never understood being strong-armed into buying flowers or chocolates or even (yep, I’m going to say it) cards – none of which will last very long.

I’m terrible at showing my love for my husband in appropriate ways. I’m certain he will be the first to agree with me on this. I like to laugh and to poke fun and I rarely tell him in so many words how happy he has made me over the years.  A lot has changed since Steve and I met and in the 11 years since.  The past year or so has been particularly challenging for me. I’m not wholly certain why, but I know I’ve not been the best spouse, or even a very good friend at times.  And I continue to assume that he knows how I feel, even though I often do a shitty job of showing it.  It’s not fair to him, really.  I said last week that anyone who professes love over and over again on the internet is probably lying. I’m not going to do that here for a lot of reasons: mostly because I can hardly do it to his face without turning it into a joke of some kind. That’s just how we do things around here. I will say that it’s never, ever been a popularity contest for us. And I thank my stars for that.

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!

these are a few of my favorite things...

Lately, I’ve had quite a time with anxiety and just feeling down. It’s not something debilitating.  In fact, it’s not even something that I was going to mention.  But today I went to visit my doctor and he made me feel so much better about my health in general that I decided to start writing down all of the things that make me happy.  Once I started thinking of things, I honestly couldn’t stop – what a great exercise, really.  I started by posting them as my Facebook status today, and when the responses from people started to make me laugh, or sigh, or just remember WHY I have such great friends, I just wanted to write more about it.

It’s really the little things, I guess.  I was talking with my Aunt Karen yesterday about how we are always looking for the next big thing to come along. How, even when we have amazing moments (the example we both thought about was sitting on the beach recently) we were still thinking about the next better thing that might happen.  I guess it’s just our American way to think about stuff like this.  So I started focusing about all the little things that I see or hear or smell each day that make me happy.  Things I often look over with the hope that bigger things might be on the horizon. 

I started a list.  I will continue to add to it – it’s simply something to remind me that there is happy all around me. I just need to look more closely…

The smell of sunscreen. Swimming at night.  A great glass of wine.  A snuggly blanket and a good book.  Scoring a new, bestseller at the library before anyone else.  Bright red nail polish.  Ludacris (please don’t ask me why he makes me smile every time I hear him!) Thunderstorms.  Seashells.  Clean sheets.  Getting dressed up for a night out.  Fancy heels.  Finding the perfect swimsuit.  Doritos.  Cheetos.  Long talks on the phone with friends. Long talks anywhere with friends.  Fart jokes.  I stole this one from my cousin Amanda: the phrase, “to the window! To the wall!” – makes me laugh every time.  Bacon.  Hot air balloons.  My writing project friends.  Preschoolers.  Old school R&B music. Full bookshelves.  The Jersey Shore (what?!) Cinnamon toast.  Coffee with real cream.  Black dogs.  Hats, in general.  Bridges – but not being under them, only going across them, I don’t know why.  Bow ties.  Naked baby butts.  Reading out loud to an attentive audience.  Boat rides.  My sister.  Singing out loud – REALLY loudly.  Road trips.  New blue jeans.  Fireflies.

I just realized that I could probably go on with this until I bored each of you to death.  It’s not my intention to do that and I plan to continue with this “project” of sorts.  I hope it inspires you as well. Also? Sadly, maybe? When I check my Google analytics and see that people are actually reading this stuff? That makes me happy, too. Thanks a bunch.

outlasting my tan...

I have a tan.  A real, live suntan.  Those who know me should be stunned by this news.  Also? I got this suntan even without a sunburn…even more stunning, I know.  Vacation this year was really good. Really, really good, and something Steve and I both needed.  It was a whole week of just being lazy: lounging by the pool and lounging on the beach and reading.  I read TWO books in one week.  Ca-ching! It was a week of watching our girls perfect their swimming techniques.  For Lucy, it was just getting back into the groove of swimming again after a long winter.  For Zoe, it was actually learning how to swim without floaties – and she did it!  It was a week of collecting shells and sand dollars and taking early morning walks on the beach to see what washed up while we slept: mostly jellyfish and other weird stuff.  It was a week of Lucy figuring out the southern drawl – and slipping it into conversation at the most perfect moments.  Of Zoe deciding that she and her sister were more alike than different, perhaps signaling a real change in their relationship? Meh, I’m not that starry-eyed.  But, it was nice while it lasted.  I have to say, though, that the part of our trip that has stuck with me, in fact, keeps haunting me, is something that happened in the first two days we were there. 

I am a light sleeper. Thanks, kids!  I’ve never been a very good sleeper (aside from maybe in my late teens and early twenties when I was a lazy fool) and I literally jump up at the slightest sounds.  The second day we were there, I woke up to what I assumed was someone getting lucky in the next condo.  I laid there for a while, thinking, “jeez! 4am is a little early OR late for this squealing, but whatever.” And then I started getting pissed because I realized that it wasn’t someone getting lucky, it was a child screaming bloody f’ing murder.  It took me about an hour, but I got back to sleep. And the next morning, I woke up furious at the parents who thought it was totally fine to let their child scream and cry in the middle of the night.  (I need to say that I was the mom who would go and pick the girls up if they started crying while we were either A: on a trip in someone’s home or in a hotel, or B: ever if I thought they would disturb someone.) I’m all about the child learning to sooth himself, as long as I don’t have to hear it at 4am.  

So, the next day, my family and I were out on the beach and next to us sat a big family with a bigger umbrella.  Under it, was a special needs child.  I don’t know what the child’s story was, but after hearing the child wail uncontrollably when the mother put on his sunscreen, I knew that this was the night-time squealer.  I felt like a giant asshole. I honestly had the wind knocked out of me as I processed what I was feeling the night before (anger) with what I felt at that moment (sadness).  I came home from this vacation with a pretty awesome suntan, that is true.  I also came home from this vacation with the reminder that you never, EVER know what a person’s story is.  Ever.  I was humbled by the experience, and while it was something seemingly simple, it is something that will stick with me much longer than my suntan.

oh, paper. I'm so sorry.

My inlaws recently gave us a gift.  One that I, admittedly, was uncomfortable with.  They gave us a brand new iPad…and even though I fought it, I do love it.  I’m still trying to figure it all out, but I have a confession to make: I downloaded some books. To read.  On iBooks.  There. I said it.  I am reading a book right now on a digital device.  Just typing that makes me feel dirty and scandalous.

I couldn’t help but to see what it was all about.  Really, can you blame me?!  I will say that I feel like I’m having a bit of a tryst.  Maybe more of a ménage trois?  I’m torn.  I love books: the smell of books, the feel of a good heavy book in my hands – the excitement of buying a new book and cracking the spine.  I know. I’m a complete dork, but whatever.  Reading a book on an iPad is just weird.  There is really no other way to describe it – using the touch screen to turn the page seems wrong, but it’s also so easy.  And, I can hardly wait to get to the beach and have not just the three heavy books I will STILL tote with me, but also the 15 others that I’ve downloaded onto the iPad.  You know, just in case I can’t pick the right one to pack.

I know I wrote this about digital readers, but I guess I’m growing and changing with time.  Or else, I’ve just lost my mind.  Either is possible…I’ll keep you posted.

36

This week I had a birthday.  Normally, birthdays sort of bother me.  I spend a lot of time thinking about particular birthdays of the past: the one, at 16, where I hung out in a car until midnight with my sweet friend Amy so we could celebrate our birthdays together (hers is June 12).  The birthday I spent crying about the boy who had broken up with me earlier that day…and that was the one where I was skinny and hot, but also? Who does that? Shame on him. My 21^st, where I wore a shiny gold dress to a club called The Edge and danced in a cage and then fell down half a flight of stairs – drunk on Midori sours…seriously.  The thought makes me simultaneously laugh and throw up in my mouth a little bit.  The one right after I had Lucy where I drank half a beer and thought I would die – I was 30 and remember thinking about how people did BIG things for 30^th birthdays.  That day I mostly felt like a giant boob. My point is that, at 36, I’ve decided to not ever be bothered with that trivial stuff anymore.  I’ve decided this is the year I will take back June 11^th. 

This year has been one of the best years of my life.  Honestly.  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m really happy with my work – I’ve found a happy place in teaching – or if it’s because my children are old enough now that I can stand back a bit and relax and enjoy them more?  I’m not sure.  I don’t know if it’s because I’ve finally decided that this extra 20 pounds is really not that big of a deal.  I just feel like each year gets a little bit better for me, and that all the stuff I worried about when I could fit into that shiny gold dress doesn’t matter at all anymore.  Sure, I’m not that skinny and cute, but I’m also not that skanky and stupid.

I’m hoping that my 36^th year will include more traveling and less whining.  More eating delicious food and drinking really good wine, and less worrying about where those calories are heading.  More time spent with family living far away and less time crying about that family not living in Kansas City anymore.  My 36^th year will be about FINALLY getting started on my masters and not letting the excuse of kids, money or time get in my way.  It’s not a new epiphany…it’s just about finally getting off my own back.  Women are way too hard on themselves and I’m finally seeing some of that.  This year will be about loving myself more and criticizing myself less.  I hope that some of you will hold me to it.

for Splitt

Today, Kansas City lost a local baseball legend when left-handed pitcher Paul Splittorff lost his battle to cancer. When I heard this news today, I found myself thinking about the days of my childhood, many of which were spent at the ball yard with my dad.  While I know that in recent years, Splittorff was synonymous with Royals broadcasting, I will always remember watching him on the pitching mound on hot summer afternoons.  When I was about 14, my dad took me to see the Smothers Brothers.  Another great Royals pitcher, Dan Quisenberry, was the opening act.  He recited Casey at the Bat and later, I found out that he, too, was a poet in his own right.  Someone wrote something earlier today about Quiz and Splitt hanging out again, and I thought it was only fitting to pull out Quisenberry's book of poetry, On Days Like This.  I thought this poem of Quiz's was a fitting tribute to Paul Splittorff today. Enjoy.

Old G(love)

mushy leather

burnt brown

light cracks

saddle creaks

your strings held up well

mine have too

we look trim enough

to still play

you protected me

Wilson A2000 XL

only glove I really liked

though I flirted with others

you were the one for me

I love your dark center

your womb

rich as Iowa soil

tight feel to my left hand

a worker’s glove

you brought slap shots

stinging in my palm

but I knew where they were

so I could grab them quick

now you look so small

do you shrink like old men

stiff and less flexible?

me too

we’re both on the shelf

but you still look nice

 and holding you

feels so right

* you can find Quisenberry's book here.

 

reflecting.

Last year during my annual review and conference with my bosses, I walked in and cried.  Literally, I walked in the door, sat down and started bawling.  I was pissed, and hurt, and frankly, done with teaching.  Honestly, I felt like I had sacrificed an entire year of teaching for nothing – and it had sucked.  I didn’t expect to cry.  I really didn’t even know what I was going to say.  Maybe, “I quit”?  I’m so glad I didn’t.

Last summer, as everyone knows, because I talk about it any chance I get, I was a fellow in the Greater Kansas City Writing Project’s summer institute.  It was, quite literally, what saved me as a teacher.  I left the SI and went back to the preschool classroom determined to give early childhood education one more chance.  I was determined to harness all the creativity and the strength and the validation I got from the GKCWP summer institute and put it to good use in my classroom. 

I am telling this story because I just sat down last night to fill out my self-evaluation for this year’s annual review.  I’m happy to say that there will be no tears at this review…at least sad ones.  This year has been amazing.  And, I teach preschool…I have stories upon stories of things that have happened this year that weren’t amazing, but those stories are nothing in light of all of the good things that happened in my class this year.

Last summer’s self-reflection taught me that I owe it to everyone to stand back and let children learn without my guiding every single moment.  I’ll add my own little caveat here: I don’t do this as often as I should in my own home.  I don’t know if it’s because I have control issues with my own kids, or if sometimes, at the end of a long day with other people’s children, I just need things to go my way?  I’m not certain. But I will say that the Dinosaur kids have had some pretty amazing experiences this year.  I’m guessing most parents will rank field trips and special visitors as the top “amazing experiences” but I’d like to tell you what I think was amazing, if I may…so here’s a list, in no particular order:

We created jobs and each chose one daily.  We made a “helpfulness board” and our “kindness catcher” watched for kind acts that we documented and posted on our bulletin board.  We baked and cooked and ate lots of new and different foods. We were the authors and illustrators of our OWN stories – and we know what the authors and an illustrators actually do (!!!!)  We grew vegetables and plants and flowers.  We hatched chicks. Out of eggs!  We watched caterpillars turn into chrysalis and then butterflies and we set them free. We learned how to have gentle hands and also how to tell our friends about our feelings.  We learned when we need some “safe” time…if only everyone would recognize when they need those moments!  We painted with all sorts of different mediums.  We wrote in journals, we drew with crayons, pencils and markers.  We scooped and shoveled, and dug and sorted and counted and patterned.  We passed out lunches to each other.  We learned to sit in a circle and listen to a story together and how to guess what the story might be about and even what might happen next.  We were really LOUD some days, and other days we needed things to be quiet. We taught a teacher, who was thinking this might not be her calling, to hang in there and to absolutely LOVE what she does.

I’m not certain what the future holds for me, but this class of kids has encouraged me to be my best: every. single. day. And not maybe the best I could be, but at least the best I could be for that day, for that child.  And, really? Isn’t that what early childhood education is all about?