It's May...

So, this was my morning yesterday.

For those of you whose computer screens aren't awesomely calibrated, that's a brown shoe on my left foot and a black one on my right. And, that's my classroom carpet, so obviously, I didn't notice the situation until I was already at school. There are SO.MANY reasons as to why this happened, but the salient one is, of course, it's May. And, I'm tired. Bone weary from giving and grading and loving and teaching and listening and repeating "STAHP picking his nose!" waaaaaay more times that any human ever should. Because, May. But, that's another blog post for another time.

Back to the shoes. Of course, my first thought was, "How fast can I get home, change shoes, and come back??" (hint: 20 minutes). My second was, "Thank God for first hour prep! No one's gonna know about this!" And then, of course, I promptly took a picture, texted it to a group of friends, posted it on Instagram AND Facebook, and then emailed it out to the entire female staff of my school.

Because, embarrassing moments can empower when they're shared. There's a strength, a confidence in hearing someone exclaim, "You, TOO?!? Oh, thank God!!" There's a power that comes from owning your humanity, your absurdity, and allowing yourself to laugh with others whom you love.

And, let's face it, as a teacher, I need to model this behavior for my crazy students. I need to show them that life sometimes slaps you in the face, but if you smile, laugh, and yes - even share the moment, you come out victorious. Stronger. Fuller.

Little did I know that other women in my school needed that laugh as much as I did. I figured I was just sending out an little funny. A moment for a chuckle, a possible eye-roll, and an "Oh, Jane...as usual..." It's May (have I mentioned that?), so we need any amount of encouragement and humor we can get.

But, these ladies. Oh, Sweet Almighty, these ladies. That picture was the tipping point, and the emails started swirling, each one more hilarious than the last. Sharing stories of clothing mishaps and malfunctions, downright embarrassing moments with doctors, teaching missteps, and more.

And with each one, I fell more in love with the women I so highly respect and admire. Because each woman is strong. Sophisticated. GORGEOUS. Hilariously funny. Amazingly loving. And so darn good at what they do. They inspire. They call to greatness, and they model that greatness themselves.

Each story, each chuckle, chipped off a bit of the professional veneer we all wear so well; it called to the soul, connecting and showing the true, insane human-ness of who we really are. It bridged multiple gaps (in age, subject matter, years of experience), and joined us together in the bonds of belly-aching laughter and cries from the soul that shouted, "You, TOO?!? Oh, thank God!!"

Our students may not notice that their teachers are more empowered and stronger, today. We probably still have the bags under our eyes, and the frazzled-harried look about us as we're racing across campus, precariously balancing piles of grading along with the biggest cup of coffee that could be found. But, I believe that we are better because of a found strength through the bonds of laughter.

Venting...

I needed a place to vent. I'm just...appalled. That's the word.

Yes, I'm part of the online dating world. Yes, I laugh more than I actually accept dates. Yes, I'm gathering fodder for a book that may (or may not ever) get written. And yes, there are more times than not that I'm fantastically appalled, offended, and downright shocked at what men write to women they don't even know.

So, here I am...for the sake of transparency, shared shock (because, wow), and just frustration, posting the conversation that took place just this morning:

Him (keep in mind, this is the FIRST TIME he's contacted me): 

Orgasm Master inviting you to a free one-on-one class on how to have longer and more lasting orgasms. Class will last all night long; I am a wizard with tongue, fingers, and my 11-inch d*ick; call me at xxx-xxx-xxxx. (While I am incredibly TEMPTED to leave his number here for all to see, I do have a sense of decency...)

Me, after stewing, brewing, and just being grossed out for the millionth time (because, friends who are already in committed, loving, honoring relationships - I get messages along this ilk ALL THE TIME): 

Why? Whyyyy?

Normally, when men are so vulgar, base, and display a downright lack of integrity and honor, characteristics which so aptly define your behavior just now, I refrain from responding. The whole adage, “You can win an argument with an idiot, but then you just won an argument with an IDIOT” definitely is apropos here.

But, today. Today. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had any coffee yet. Maybe it’s because I woke up on the snarky side of the bed. Maybe it’s because I walked into my classroom and looked into the eyes of my amazing, brilliant, loving, creative, and brave female students, who will some day (oh, dear Lord, I shudder at the thought) have to encounter the vile and filth that is a man like you.

So, today, I respond. Not that you’re going to read anymore of this because you’re probably now pissed beyond thinking that I would deign to call you out. How dare I? I mean, I’m just a woman, and you looked in my direction, gave me the proverbial “wink,” and I’m just supposed to drop to my knees and thank you for your consideration?

Not in my lifetime.

I do have questions, though. Why? Why would you think that’s an appropriate way to get a woman’s attention?

Better yet, how would you feel if someone used that line on your mother? Sister? Considering your age (he's 44), your daughter or niece? I’m sure you would be offended and absolutely appalled. Maybe even want to defend their honor.

But me? Why me? Ooooooh, because I’m not a real person. I’m an image on the screen, something you can fantasize about, much akin to the porn you probably watch.

I’m more than that. I’m flesh and blood (and not just the vagina you’re so interested in). I have a brain. It’s fabulous, really. I’m compassion and grace. I’m strength and dignity. I’m dreams and hopes and grief and joy.

And EVERY WOMAN is. Every picture you click on. Every person to whom you send a debasing message, she is real and deserves every iota of respect that you fail to see her worthy of.

Until you figure out how to treat women as PEOPLE, it’s probably best that you stay away from the world for a while.

I don't share this to man-shame. The number of honorable, loving, amazing men I know outnumber the sleeze balls by a large margin. I am blessed, beyond measure, to have those intelligent, funny, honest, and kind men in my life.

But, friends. This is real. These messages flood my inbox, and I'm just tired of being silently appalled by myself. I am strong. I am smart. And I know that these kinds of messages - and the insinuations and assumptions they contain - do not define me or who I am to the world.

Men. C'mon. As a friend, a sister, a daughter, an aunt, a co-worker; as a human being, I'm asking you to stop. Stop the debasing. Stop seeing women as only a tool to scratch your itch. Stop seeing us as potential porn stars to act out every fantasy you've ever seen on your computer.

Treat us as humans. People. And, I think, it takes shifting your perspective, first. To treat us as humans, you need to see us as humans. And, I think the advent of this whole internet-age has succeeded in keeping that from happening, on a very basic level.

Am I still going to stay on those dating websites? For a while. Goodness knows, I need more fodder for my book. 

Am I going to let scum bags like the one above define my understanding of men? Hell, no. I have my dad, my friends, my brother, my uncles, and countless other amazing men in my life who live out respect, honor, integrity, and love so well.

But, I worry about other women - even my students - who DON'T have those examples in their lives.

Yes, Again.

Yes, again.

I’m packing, again. Finding clothes, filling little bottles, sorting out my house, making sure there’s enough food and supplies - human and feline - for my housesitter. Weighing my suitcase, to make sure that I fall, safely, within the 50-pound (23-kilo) limit. Finding places to put little stuffed animals (shoes work), and taking out that “t-shirt that I really don’t need…” so I can can put more supplies in the bag. Writing sub plans for six days (!!), and essentially making sure that everything’s in order for my classes while I’m gone (if you’re a teacher, you know how much work that is…).

And, breathing. Because this whole leaving-for-two-weeks-to-journey-to-the-ends-of-the-Earth-during-the-middle-of-the-school-year is crazy. Exhausting. Brain-numbing.

And, there are times that I wonder if it’s worth it. I mean, I’m going to be FLYING for over 22 hours. One way. Not counting the layovers, which are long. Sleeping under mosquito nets, taking anti-malarials which do not sit well with my system, being in a climate that’s muggy and HOT (like, 90ish-degrees at 2:00AM, kind of hot). Being in close proximity (as in, they’re sitting on me) with smelly, dirty children. Myself getting very dirty and sweaty and gross. While I enjoy a good “adventure,” I’d much rather it be in a climate that’s temperate-to-cool. Where I don’t sweat.

There are so many reasons why this is a “bad idea.” So many reasons that, if I give in to my selfish, ME-driven desires, are quickly put into the “Nope” category, and could easily talk me out of this “adventure.”

And, yet.

There is a voice, whispered deep in my soul, that says, “This, THIS is what I made you to do.” It’s a voice that I’ve listened to over and over again, hence this crazy, adventure-filled life that I’ve lead. It’s the voice that’s taught me to love, taught me to look past the outside of a human to see the PERSON underneath. The voice that has called me to do crazy, awkward, “are you CRAZY??” things in the name of love.

The voice that reminds me of children named Gift. And Beatrice. And Jonathan Saidi. Zione. Shadrek. Beauty. Wisdom. Brigit...and with each name comes a face. A story. A heart that needs to be loved.

And so, I pack. I write sub plans. I organize my house, and then I gather my amazing high school students around me, and we’ll get on many planes and travel many, many miles for just the chance to love. Even if only for a short while. Because those children need to be told, once again, that they are loved. Deeply. Wholly. Completely. By the One who made them. And, they need to be shown it - tangibly - by those of us who know the One who made them and called them.

So, yes. Again and again and again. I will go.

Ooooooh, Child...

"...things are gonna get easier. Ooooooh, child, things'll get brighter..."

Now the song's in my head. You're welcome, The Five Stairsteps fans.

But, seriously.

Dear Sweet Child Who's in My Classroom at Lunch,

I love that you're your own person. Independent. Smart as a whip. Your fashion choices are...well...not mainstream. I love that you wear pants that are too short for you, rainbow, neon-checked socks, and a light mint-green shirt. I love that you twisted your long, almost scraggly blonde hair back, but that there's definite evidence of bed-head still at play.

I love that you have a fierce sense of self, and I love that you are determined to be YOU, regardless of what the throngs of junior high kiddos are doing. I love that you refuse to compromise who you are to fit in, but I love that you are still willing to try to find a point of connection with others who are so different from you.

But, I also know. I know that you long for a friend, and you have yet to find one. I know that by coming into my classroom and telling me about your weekend adventures with your family that you're looking for validation. I know that doing your homework at lunch is a defense against the loneliness you're feeling because you see everyone else in groups. Laughing. Joking. Connecting.

And, honey. It breaks my heart, too. I WANT for you to feel accepted, loved. Connected to the peers around you. I desire for you to have a friend who will look you in the face and honestly say, "Yes. You are my friend. I love you because of who you are. You are my tribe."

And, my heart breaks because I was that girl in junior high. I didn't have that friend...not at school. I wandered the halls, spoke more with teachers than my peers, and I hid behind the facade of homework so those around me couldn't notice how much it hurt that they couldn't...or wouldn't see me.

So, child. Sweet, sweet, independent, crazy, awesome, non-sequitur child, you are always welcome with me. Come eat in my classroom, come pretend to do homework, come follow me around and tell me the minutia of your adventures outside of school.

There will come a day that God brings you that friend. The one who will connect, on a soul-level with you, who will challenge you, push you, accept you, and just love you...for who you are. Until then, you always have a safe place with me. And even after that friend shows up, I'm still gonna need to have you drop by. Just for some fashion advice. :)

Signed,

That Girl

Frustrated, and Just Being Real

Ever have one of those days where NOTHING goes right? We all have. I know. We all have.

Today, I sang at church. I only get to do this once a month because I go to a church that is OVERFLOWING with amazing musicians. It's insane. It's like we've got a tractor-beam out for incredibly gifted musical people. And trust me, beloveds, when I tell you that I'm still shocked at the fact that I'm allowed to sing with them. I always feel a bit like the stepchild of the team. Or, that kid who gets picked last for the baseball team.

Well, the nothing-goes-correctly rule firmly applied to tonight's church services. We were signing in some funky keys, and the other gal singing background vocals was supposed to be singing tenor. She wasn't. She was singing alto. I'm the alto.

That meant, for some reason, the leader decided I should sing second-soprano. Alrighty, I can figure that out, although it's annoying. Problem was...remember those funky keys? They were HIGH. So high that they bumped the notes out of the second soprano range and into the first soprano range.

Let's think about this...I'm an ALTO. For you non-music types, that means that I sing in the low end of a woman's vocal range. It's my sweet spot, vocally. It's where I'm strong, tone-wise, and it's how I'm made. Tonight, I had to sing soprano. The high notes. The REALLY high notes. Beyond what I'm capable of singing...not because I was being lazy, or not listening, or unable to get the part. But, because, physiologically, that's how God made my body, my vocal cords in particular.

It was a train wreck. At least, it felt that way. I was tinny, pitchy, breathy (not in a good way)...because I just CAN'T hit those notes. I just CAN'T.

So, now I'm frustrated. Feeling like the weakest link in the chain, and rightfully so, but by no fault of my own.

I know, I KNOW that God's strength is made perfect in my weakness. I KNOW most of the congregation had no idea (the pessimist in me says that's because the sound guys pulled me out of the mix). I KNOW that just getting up there and trying made God happy.

I just want a do-over. In lower keys. (Oh, and the worst part? I can't get the songs out of my head now. Mmmmrrrrr...)

(This is my face in regards to tonight's musical "adventure.")

Not My Favorite Moment...

School's begun again, and I love this time of year. It's fun, the kids are on their best behavior (the PARENTS are on their best behavior), the binders are new, the shoes are squeaky....it's exciting.

But, I had one of those heart-stopping, tear-inducing moments this morning.

For the past four years, one of my BFFs, C, has traipsed from her classroom to mine to fill up her coffee cup. We would laugh, hug each other, joke about the day, make faces at the kids, and take a moment...together...to let the effects of the sweet, sweet, thank-you-Jesus, bean-juice fill our soul.

C moved far away this summer. To chase some other dreams, to live a life of joy and love and passion and enthusiasm. And, I couldn't be happier for her.

But, for a moment this morning, my heart broke a little when I looked at my coffee mugs sitting dutifully next to that full pot of glorious awakeness. It broke, knowing that C wasn't going to dance into my classroom, grab a mug, sit in my chair, and find the courage (because, sometimes it's found at the bottom of a coffee cup) to face the throngs of students who need us.

It definitely...DEFINITELY...was not my most favorite moment.

Thanks for letting me be real.

Until You Believe It...

I'm just going to be brutally honest. Being single sucks.

SUCKS.

Especially when it seems like everyone else is finding that special "someone," and you're stuck home, alone on Friday night, watching "Pride and Prejudice" - all six hours of the BBC version - yet again.

I know, sister. I. KNOW.

Some of my amazing friends have lately had to have hard talks with guys who have played with their hearts and souls. And, I tell you what, I'm in awe of my friends. Of their strength. Their grace. Their ability to speak the words that explain their hurt, their pain, and the healthy boundaries that these women need to place around their big, fragile, unfailing hearts.

Because the guys weren't getting it.

And so, today, a Friend sat the guy down and had "the talk." And he didn't get it.

Just because he didn't get it doesn't mean it's not right. But, we need words. We need our loved ones to surround us when we do scary, hard things and celebrate with us - and for us - when we take a stand for ourselves.

So, Friend, I told you I'd say it and say it and say it. As many times as you need. I'll say it out loud, I'll text you in the middle of the night, and I'm posting it here for those times that you can't reach me.

(And, for all of you other Friends out there who need the words, read these here as many times as you need...)

You are amazing.
You stood up for your heart.
You spoke your truth in grace and love (or not, and that's okay, too).
There is no need to feel guilt, or second guess, or worry, when you are honest with yourself, God, and others.

I'm seriously in awe of you. You inspire me, and I love you, Friend.

Long Time, No Posting...

2013 was hard. HARD.

And, I realized that certain things needed to be put on hiatus in order for me to be able to keep all the rest of my life spinning. It also meant that some of the things that fill my soul also needed to be put on hiatus.

Many nights, I would walk through my door, and then crumple into an exhausted heap on my bed...the floor...the couch...and the idea of making dinner, or seeing a friend, or GRADING was just impossible. Things like blogging were absolutely out-of-the-question; if I can't do the mandatory things (laundry? Grades?), how on earth am I going to do these fun-yet-crazy side projects.

Thing was, I wanted to. And, I had ideas for posts; I would draft them in my head when I walked to work in the mornings. They just never got written down because as soon as my foot hit school property, my day took off in a whirlwind, and those thoughts were lost in the shuffle of life and school and kids.

Has my life settled down a bit? Not really. Maybe a bit.

Have I finally figured out how to balance it all? HAHAHAHHAHA, no way.

Do I need to write for my sanity? YES.

Am I going to be consistent in this? My hopeful answer is, "Darn tootin'!" but I think the truthful answer is, "We'll see."

My goal for this year has been to live IN THE MOMENT. To not rush forward to the next thing; to enjoy exactly where I am. And, to not worry about some of the things I "have" to do, and to do some of the things I "need" to do - for me to be me.

Of Pumpkin Pie and Driving...

Last night, my Bestie-J and I were going to join Amazing Co-worker A at a brew-pub to celebrate all of us being done with parent conferences. J was a LITTLE bit excited. Just a bit. A tiny, eensy-weensy bit. When J gets excited...scary things can happen.

She picked me up and we drove there - normal shenanigans ensued, but nothing too crazy or dramatic - other than us complaining about how stinking hungry we were (it was already 7:30, and I hadn't eaten anything since lunch).

We parked. Opened the doors. J asked me to hand over her purse.

Problem. No purse. No wallet. Only her cellphone and keys (this is an issue when we're going into a brew pub to get a beer...or two...normally, I would've just covered her cost, but since you kinda need your ID to purchase a beer, we realized we were in trouble).

Soooooo...I climbed into the driver's seat, rearranged EVERYTHING (we may be the same height, but we are polar opposites in terms of proportion), and I drove her back to her house (we may be rebels, but knowingly driving without a license is not an option in our world). En route, she texted A and told her we were on to "Plan Q": we'll be going to a different brew pub closer to J's house instead. I FINALLY (her words) pulled up to her driveway, she ran out, and I moved back over to the passenger seat.

Not more than 30-seconds later, she climbed back into the car, purse in hand. Also in her hands? A pumpkin pie and two forks.

I quickly deduced that both forks were not for me, although she put up the pretense of it being so. J has a thing for pumpkin pie - her love affair with it rivals that of Cleopatra and Marc Antony. It took us all of seven minutes to drive to the "Plan Q" (I counted), during which I rotated forkfuls of pumpkin pie to my chauffeur.

See below for a picture of the damage done in seven minutes. By J. I only got, at most, three small bites in.

Yep.

Top 10s (10 - 8)

Side note: I came up with this idea a while ago, but due to...LIFE...I haven't been able to write all 10 yet. I figured I'd start with these three and continue to add, periodically, until I reach Number 1 (a doozy, I tell you).

A few of us teachers were hiding out in the break room the other lunch, and we started laughing about some of the (mis)adventures that we've had over the years as teachers. (mis)Adventures that we were never warned about in teacher school. 

Here are some of my Top 10 Teacher (mis)adventures, in no particular order...

10. The Run-In: students find you.

                

It was one of those days. The kind where it snuck up on me and head-smacked me over and over. Heading home, I stopped at Target to pick up a few necessities for my survival of the next 12-ish hours. You know, the recovery-kit: Totino’s Pizza Rolls (the max pack), the large bag of Halloween candy (bless Target for starting early on that marketing campaign), the 2-gallon jug-o-wine (I’m not ashamed), Ben and Jerry’s Phish Phood (it’s possible there were three of them), “Felicity” seasons 1 – 3, and um…how does one put this delicately? A box of “lady items.” Suddenly, out of nowhere (and, I mean NOWHERE) this voice pipes up, “Ms. Doe! How ARE you?!?” There, before me, stands one of the culprits of said horrid day (and creator of my need for at least half of that jug of wine), smiling as if he’s as pure as the driven snow (he’s not. I promise). Standing next to him? His father. The lead pastor of the most über-conservative church in town.

9. Back-to-School-Night:

               

As if the idea that I need to talk to the PARENTS of my students isn't bad enough, my very first B2S Night (as our school likes to abbreviate it), I looked like one of the students. I kid not, that year I was “escorted” to the office more times than I could count by our “helpful” parent volunteers, all of whom were convinced that I was out of class without permission. Needless to say, that night, I needed to look the grown up part. I had that down – and was tastefully dressed in a way that (I had hoped) conveyed a level of maturity and sophistication

All was good until dinner time. The school provided us with a meal, since so many of us couldn't go home and back in the time allotted, so I had moved to the quad to join my co-workers. It was then that it happened. The worst, worst possible issue to befall a tastefully dressed lady who so needed to impress her students’ parents.

GRAPE JELLY.

              

I sat in it, unawares. A large, purple, sticky blob had formed on the back of my dress, and of course, we discovered it five minutes before the festivities were to start. There was no time to run home to change – I had no Plan B.

                

I spent the whole Back to School Night leaning against my whiteboard, hiding my purple-hued left butt-cheek, praying that no one would notice. I thought I had succeeded until I met the parents for Student Council (my last class of the night).

                

It was then that the Student Body President (who was in attendance, and whom I have forgiven…I think…), stage whispered, “Ms. Doe…! What happened to your dress?!?!”

                

Lesson learned: bring three clothing options for B2S Night. Never leave anything to chance.

8. Driving “Adventures”:

                

Every teacher has to drive his/her students somewhere over the course of his/her teaching career, but I think the teachers at my school have pulled the lion’s share of this duty. Between field trips, service days, sports games, and missions trips, we always seem to be piling kiddos into vehicles and departing to destinations unknown.

                

One year, I was tasked with driving a white 15-passenger van (!! We called it “Moby Dick”) filled with 16-year-old boys all over (I mean ALL OVER) San Francisco. The thing about 16-year-old guys is: they just learned to drive, think they’re 10-feet-tall and bullet proof, and honestly think they can drive better than you – even though you earned your license BEFORE THEY WERE BORN.

                

Needless to say, the whole way to SF, all I heard was how I should merge over, go faster, get around that car up ahead, and “Geez; could you turn OFF Boston/Train/The Who/Journey/Eric Clapton and turn on Chris Brown??” Every bit of my performance was under critique from teenage driving professionals, and I came up lacking.

                

Until.

                

Until the field trip headed to Ghirardelli Square. Until I pulled the coup d’état that knocked all the wind out of their very-full-of-s#@% attitudes and sails.

                

I parallel parked that Moby Dick of a van directly in front of the Ghirardelli sign like a pro.

                

Take that, boys.

Radio Silent

I've been silent for a long time; I know that. I was so busy being, teaching, hanging out with loved ones, laughing, SLEEPING...that I didn't have time to blog.

Oh, I had blog ideas. Lots of them. They swam around in my head, circling like the bright colors on a Calliope. Thing was, I just didn't have time to put them on paper, so to speak.

So, my brilliant, hilarious, witty, life-changing (hah!) blog posts stayed locked up in my brain all summer long. I apologize about that, but...selfishly, I was having too good a time with my adventures to stop.

I think that's what life is supposed to be.

Now that I have settled into a (albeit, erratic) rhythm back in the teaching world, I hope to jump back into blogging. Telling stories.

Reminding myself...maybe others...that life is worth living. Fully. Completely.

My Summer

When I first started thinking of my summer vacation, waaaay back in April (okay, February), I dreamed of lazy, hazy days when I slept in until noon, wandered down to the coffee shop, and spent the day talking and laughing with loved ones.

I had those days. Just...not as often as I had hoped.

Other things happened - things that took priority over lazy days with friends.

Major things. Things that bring emotions of stress and worry into my summer.

* Things like my amazing momma needing major surgery to repair a carotid artery (ack! She's fine now...she scared me, but she really is going to be better-than-good at this point.).


 *Things like one of my first students committing suicide in the face of his out-of-control PTSD after two tours in Iraq, and traveling to be at his memorial to give support to his surviving family.


* Days spent praying for my childhood mentor's health...as it's pretty certain she won't make it until the fall.


Don't get me wrong...I also had amazing days - days I want to do over because they were so fantastic.


* The day I took my momma (fully recovered - remember that) to Les Miserables for her first time. AND, my favorite Kiwi family was with us. Seeing my favorite play with my favorite people made that day perfect.


* Traveling to Portland with loved ones for a long-weekend. Spending those days reconnecting on a soul-level - sometimes without even words - filled my soul.


* Unexpected teenager-like slumber party of some girlfriends at my house - late night laughter, glasses of wine, hilariously cheesy movies...loved it.


This summer has just reminded me of what life really is - it's gut-wrenching ugliness mixed completely with incredible joy - and every thing in between. It's about walking in love with the people in your life through whatever valley or mountaintop you may be on...but it's about putting one foot in front of the other.


And doing so with hope.


(Wine and chocolate...and, let's be honest - some really good nachos - help, too...)

Who I Am

I've been bouncing this idea for a tattoo around in my head for a while. Today, I walked the three blocks to the tattoo shop and got it done.


It's a reminder of who I am. Of what I am. Of what I want to be towards others.

It's still kinda stingy right now, and it's still so new that I keep being shocked when I look at my arm.

I like it.

My Newest Favorite Pictures

These are my newest favorite pictures...and I think they will be for a very, very long time.

The other day, I was taking care of my nieces, E and D. Their momma was in the hospital, giving birth to their little sister (more on that saga in another post - maybe. If she'll let me...), and I had to run into school to write up sub plans for the next day's classes - just in case. I'm that hyper-organized teacher who leaves highly detailed sub plans with check lists, seating charts...even back-up plans for my back-up plans.

Anyway, we three girlies went on an adventure to school (E and D are 3-years and 2-years, respectively, so I can fool them into thinking school's an adventure), but when we went to leave, the traffic in the parking lot was HORRENDOUS.

Spending 30 minutes, in the car, waiting out traffic, in a PARKING LOT, with toddlers was not my idea of "fun." Sooooo, Auntie Jane tricked them into believing that a walk around campus is an amazingly awesome part of our "adventure."

That's when we realized that C was still on campus. C is easily one of my favorite people - she's loyal, loving, HILARIOUS, grounded, understanding...AND she's a bundle of nuclear-fusion type energy packed into a tiny frame. She's also the dance teacher.

The woman pulled out tutus, used binder clips to cinch in the waists, turned on songs from Disney movies, and gave the girls the BEST impromptu dance party anyone could ask for.

Between my own (rather rocking) dance moves, I was able to catch some pictures.




Love this one of D. Kills me. I wish we could all have that kind of innocence.




E slays me, here. When did she get so grown up?




And this one. This one just makes my heart smile. D's face cracks me up, and I love that C is playing along...

My friends are the best. I am truly a blessed woman.

...of Band Concerts...

School band concerts are always an adventure. Always.

Friday's was no different. Our band teacher is amazing, and I love how hard he works, and I love the huge amount of professionalism he gets out of our kids.

I didn't go to the concert for him. I also don't go because of the music (some good, some...well...). I go because there's a bunch of kiddos, MY kiddos, who are in the beginning level of band, and who are so, so, sooooooo excited to show off their musical chops (ahem, so to speak).

My sixth graders were first. As they came out, my buddy, K, who teaches our older students, leaned over to whisper to me, "They're so SMALL!"

I, on the other hand, was flashing back to the beginning of the year, and I was thinking the exact opposite: "They're so BIG!!!"

Big or small, they're still only 11. And, 11-year-olds do what 11-year-olds are prone to doing when they file out to begin a band concert - they wave at their families. It's adorably cute.

My favorite moment, of the whole night, was right after everyone finished waving. The band teacher, Mr. B., stepped up to call this band to attention. Right at that moment, right after everyone was set to go, J (stubborn, drive-me-nuts, can't-get-with-the-program, I-sometimes-pray-he's-absent-just-for-my-sanity) pops out of formation to wave at one last person.

Me.

Been Reading...and Thinking...

Note: I wrote this back in January, and somehow I never pressed the "Publish" button. I was digging through my archives and found it. Somehow, today felt right to let it be known.

Lately, I've been reading through the posts on TWLOHA's website. No, I haven't sunk back into that soul-deep battle for light in the midst of my darkness; I just have had a lot of time to think about pain lately.

Mine.

Others.

Reading the words from the people at TWLOHA - people I admire so much for their undying, unending compassion for other people - ones they may never meet...it gives perspective. Hope.

This past fall sucked. Seriously sucked. Watching someone I love slip away into eternity sounds as though it should be beautiful, but it's not. It hurts. He's not here, and my mortal, infinite mind screams that he should be. It's not fair.

Watching his loved ones try to deal with that pain and loss hurts, too. Because I can't fix it. I can't take it away from them. That's really, REALLY hard for a girl who's been nicknamed MacGyver. I can fix a toilet with dental floss, chewing gum, and a paper clip...I should be able to fix this, right? Right?

Wrong.

So, I sit. I hold hands. I cry...sometimes with them. Sometimes alone. I listen. I make junk food and watch movies I would NEVER admit to watching, because it makes them smile - even for a second.

And, I remember what a man posted in a blog post three years ago. His direct quote is, "We give a shit."

Crazily enough, I believe him. Just that much helps.

My Favorite Windows...

Bet you thought this was going to be about architecture, huh?

Nope.

I was walking through our school's parking lot today, and I noticed a lot of cars with back windows that look like this:

See the remnants of duct-tape? The sticky substance that won't - no matter how you try - WON'T come off (save use of Goo-Gone and a razor blade)? That's the sign.

This car went on one of our many service trips. Every year, our school packs up our senior high students and heads out to all the different corners of the globe. During that week-long trip, some build wheelchair ramps for the poorest of our nation's poor in Appalachia, some run a day-camp for refugee children in San Diego, some work in inner-city LA with anti-gang ministries; some head off of this continent to Japan, to Ecuador, to Malawi...and some, like this vehicle's driver, some build homes and classrooms and facilities in an orphanage in Tecate, Mexico.

The tape is a reminder- the driver was part of a caravan that chased other members of our school up and down California's main artery, the I-5. Each caravan is numbered, and each vehicle in the caravan wears its number on its back window (so, as we're driving, we know who belongs to whom. There are sometimes 90+ vehicles that make this trek...organization is KEY).

Today, it just made me smile. It makes my heart smile. It reminds me that, even though I'm in the crunch of the "end-of-the-year" race, and I'm fighting burnout, and the students have morphed into little terrors...that what I'm feeling isn't truth. These emotions are based in exhaustion, both physical and emotional; and they're steeped in stress (how on EARTH am I going to fit eight-weeks' worth of curriculum into four weeks???). The truth is, I work with compassionate, loving, world-changing young adults.

They love deeply. They give sacrificially. They are constant examples of who I want to be.

So yes, it's a dirty, taped-on car window. And I love it.

Judge Not...

...oh, there are so many things in my life that the phrase, "Judge not," could be applied to...

...the fact that I squeeze my toothpaste from the middle.
...I eat peanut butter straight from the container (using a spoon, of course...maybe).
...I never seem to be able to put my laundry away (get it clean? Yes. Folded? Sometimes. Put away? NO.)
...I will drive MILES out of my way for a good cup of coffee.
...I have a crazy, stupid love of fake mustaches.
...I still have a childhood crush on Tom Selleck (might explain the one above).
...I pretend I'm cleaning someone else's house when I'm doing chores.
...I carry on conversations with myself all the time.
...I still think I'm 16 until I look in a mirror.
...if there are tater tots on the menu, I HAVE to have them. Even if they don't go with my meal of choice.
...I've been known to drive 45 minutes for Sonic's tater tots.
...I still want to be a flight attendant.
...I still want to be a rock 'n roll star.
...I still want to join the circus.
...I DO believe that a cowboy will ride into town on his horse, tip his hat, call me "Darlin'," and that will be that. We'll live happily ever after on his ranch (when I'm not traveling with the airlines, the band, and the circus).

But today; today's actions are in desperate need of the phrase, "Judge not." See, today. Today, I got my eyelashes permed. (I see the face you're making, J... Judge. Not.)

I had a Groupon, you see. I had to try it, I just had to! It's not nearly as painful as one might guess; it was actually kinda relaxing, to be honest.

You end up lying on the spa table with your eyes closed for about an hour. Yes, you do smell like the perming solution, and that's a little gross, I will give you that. (But, in my defense, I grew up with that smell. My momma used to give my Nonny home perms every month. Nonny lived two blocks away, and her house was our playground - I think we were in her house more than we were in our own. So, when momma would perm Nonny's hair, we'd always be there, pretend gagging at the smell, and generally causing a ruckus. Nonny's been gone over two decades now; I miss her something fierce. The smell brought back great memories of her.)

So, for an hour, I lay on that table, eyes closed, smelling of childhood ick, remembering my Nonny, and smiling.

Oh, and my eyelashes are perfectly curled, thankyouverymuch.

I can now bat them at my hunky cowboy.

Breathing

It's been a long, hard fall and winter. Normally, I'm the one jumping on the "finding joy in all circumstances" bandwagon, but these last couple months...it feels as if everyone I know and love has been blindsided. I remember writing these words almost a year ago, and I knew that it was coming, I just...

...I'm tired.

The other day, I was digging through an old notebook. I'm not sure what I was looking for, to be honest, but I turned the page and found this written, in my handwriting, so I know I wrote it:



Been trying to remember to do that...

During Staff Meetings

I have a confession. I HATE meetings. Any kind. Every kind. I get antsy, my butt-cheeks go numb, and after a while, all I hear in my head is, "He/she is STILL talking? Why? Why is he/she still talking? Makeitstop makeitstop makeitstop."

I've found coping mechanisms for such meetings. I knit (they've gotten used to it), I grade (again, no surprise there), I text surreptitiously to other meeting members - usually the mantra I just wrote above. Sometimes, if the person drones on a bit too long, I can find a creative bent.

This was one of them. Funny thing is, this is exactly, EXACTLY how I felt, years ago, when I "found" myself again. I remember talking with a friend, and she said, "You're BACK." I thought at that moment, "Not quite. I'm better."

“Hey,” he whispered, drawing her attention away from the swirls and shapes she was contemplating at the bottom of her coffee cup, “I remember you.”

“No,” she answered. “No, you don’t.”

He hunched down to look her fully in the face, and stared, trying to get past the barrier of friendly-polite-yet-aloofness. His eyes were still the bright blue; the twinkle not diminished by time. The crinkles along the sides of those eyes and the gray just starting to show at his temples? Those were new.

She did know him. From before…just before.

“Yes, I do,” he smiled. “You’ve been gone a long time, but you’re back now.”

“I guess I am,” she acquiesced. Smiling slightly.

“Same old gal, huh?”

“No,” she spoke the words slowly and carefully to make her point. “Not at all. I’m stronger. Better.”