Friend #69

I know, I know. Although I've met many awesome new people in the past two months, I had taken on so many extra projects at work (where I met these new people!) which forced me to take a break from writing. And then there was Nanowrimo. Oh, Nano. In my world, it's called "pain" but I do it to myself.

Each year, there's a writing event called National Novel Writing Month. I've participated in previous years but didn't get far. The premise is this: Writers are challenged to write a novel in the month of November. 50,000 words, to be exact. That equals out to 1,666 words per night or to put it in high schoolers' terms "a two-page essay per night." Easy, right? It would be a piece of cake if that were true. But writing a two-page essay per night and making all of those two-page essays connect in a logical and entertaining manner is hard. HARD. I began writing an autobiography written in the third person. I found out on Day Two that my brother was doing the same. Interesting. But I kept truckin along. They say you just have to keep writing. Don't edit. Don't go back. You can edit later. That was my safety net. I wasn't going to turn in this "essay" every morning. It didn't have to be perfect.

I kept telling myself that I can go back in a month and make a second draft. Yeah, that'll happen.

As I was on this adventure (there are still a few days left, but I'm pretty much done with 43,000 words), I met Kim. Kim is another writer and happens to be my school's rep for a book company called BookJams. Kim came in trying to sell me her wares like many salespeople do each week. I actually liked her product though. BookJams are this: Each BookJam set has a theme like "Teen Angst" or "Mythical Creatures" (read: vampires and warewolves.) Each set includes a class set of three or four novels, one novel which was written by the founder of the company and the others being popular novels for teens. With each novel comes teaching lessons, workbooks, quizzes, etc. What stood out about this company versus others is that the novels are current and engaging for today's teens.

I told Kim that in order to purchase a set for $1,600, I'd have to write a grant or receive funds from donors. In the meantime, she noticed that I was wearing the official "NaNoWriMo" T-shirt and squealed. "Oh my word! Do you do NaNo?!?" she asked exuberantly. I was just as giddy as she, as I hadn't met anyone who knew about NaNo other than my brother and a few high school friends. I met Kim on Day Four of NaNo. It is now Day 27 and we've had a strange but exciting 23-day friendship which has revolved around writing and motivating and impressing each other. I felt like Kim was my marathon buddy. Each day, in addition to asking how many words I wrote the night before, she asked me how I've come with my grant writing (she wants to make a sale, you know!)

One day, around Day 16, Kim decided to completely change what she was writing. She started out writing a sad "Notebook"-style novel. Midway through, she was driving down the street and almost hit a bicyclist who was on HIS cell phone during rush hour traffic. She had a better idea for a novel - write about different ways people die. Interestingly enough, she stopped what she was writing and took one night to figure out how to blend the two stories. I warned her not to turn it into "The Five People You Meet in Heaven - The Sequel" and she assured me it wouldn't be. It's now a rough sketch of what very well may be a hit, from the parts I've read.

I've told Kim that I hope our friendship doesn't end on November 30th, when we no longer HAVE to hold each other's hand.

Kim told me that as long as she has a book to write, and since I haven't purchased her product yet, she will not go away. I love that writing brought the two of us together.

Friend #68

Last week, Mike and I spent a blissful/hectic five days in NYC. It was my dream to be able to spend a few days just wandering the neighborhoods of my favorite city. I have been to NYC a few times before, but each visit was for a very specific reason and I was led to very specific places and very specific times.
When Mike asked me where I wanted to go for vacation, I hemmed and hawed...nothing sounded good. I don't like lazy, sit-on-the-beach-for-a-week vacations; I like to learn and see things on trips. So after pondering Jamaica, Hawaii, Napa, Austin (yes, Austin TEXAS...hey, they have a good music scene!), Seattle and Florida, New York popped in my head. "You know what would make me really, really happy?" I asked Mike. Strangely, he wasn't opposed to the idea of returning to his home state and visiting chaos for a few days. (Mike looooooves beach vacations.) And so it was.
Our only plans were to see the Museum of Natural History, the Met, and Central Park. I knew that the museums were on each side of the Park, so we hit the Met, walked through the park, and then hit the history museum. After that, the only other thing on our list was to visit Mike's college friend Joelle and her husband. Other than the things on our list, we allowed ourselves the freedom to literally aimlessly wander the streets of Manhattan through Soho, Chinatown, Little Italy, the Financial District, the Village, and everything in between.
On the first night (before the sore feet and blisters), we decided to visit Joelle.
Joelle doesn't know how great she has it. She runs the catering and vegan portions of her long-run family grocery on the Upper East Side. The store is on street level and her apartment is above. I've never seen such a large, character-filled apartment anywhere, but especially in crowded NYC. Each hallway led to a new nook or room or outside patio. The hardwood floors and teeny kitchen screamed "East Coast" charm.
Joelle used to run her business out of her apartment, which justified the size for the time being. Since moving operations elsewhere, her husband and she share this glorious piece of New York City. Joelle, being one of Mike's oldest and dearest friends, voiced the typical shock that comes out of old friends' mouths when they hear that he lives with children. "I can't believe YOU have kids! It's...just...so...funny!"
We spent our too-short time together with Joelle forcing Mike to relive his most embarrassing college moments of drunkenness. These were stories I hadn't heard, and I craved more.
As we left, I told Joelle that one day I will live in NYC and we will hang out together.
(She doesn't know it yet, but I plan to move into her massive apartment in a few years...shhh!)

Friend #67

I actually debated for a week about making Friend #67 public. He is so interesting and yet so...um...interesting.
His name is Parker. He is close friends with my brother and sister-in-law. Parker's reputation precedes him in a way that no other can.
I've been hearing about the Parker-and-Kelly team for a few months because they were expecting a baby during the same months as my brother and sister-in-law, Parris. While in the hospital waiting for my niece to arrive, my brother mentioned that they were going to save the placenta. "Hmmm," I thought to myself. My brother explained, "Our friend Parker made placenta vitamins when his son was born a few weeks ago and he's going to do it for us." Awkward stares filled the delivery room. He explained the theory that essential vitamins are lost when the placenta exits the body, and by turning the placenta into pills, the mother can replace those lost nutrients with her own. Gag. I think I threw up in my mouth a bit.
Fast forward one week. We're sitting on my brother's couch and he shows me the infamous jar of placenta vitamins that Parker has, in fact, created for Parris's enjoyment.
Here's how he did it (Warning: Gag factor in full-force): My brother took the placenta home in a double-baggie and stored it in his refrigerator. He then gave the placenta to Parker, who dried it out and baked it on low heat for eight hours in the oven (think beef jerky.) Parker crushes the remains up and transfers it into empty pill capsules found at the health food store.
I finally met Parker at the baby shower two weeks after my niece was born. With me being a bit inebriated , Parker was christened "Placenta Boy". He was proud of his work, however.
Gift-opening time arrived. The baby received the usual toys and clothes. Then it was time to open Parker and Kelly's gift. The first gift in the bag was an adorable set of tactile burp cloths for the baby to experience touching different textures. Parker and Kelly were up all night making these, of course.
Then Parris pulled out a roll of butcher paper. "Ohhhh, I know what this is!" she screamed. In his defense, Parker warned Parris that the shower attendees may not want to see this. But we did...sort of.
Parris unrolled a set of prints...made from her placenta blood. It looked like a massacre. It looked exactly like what it was: placenta blood dripped on butcher paper. "I'm going to frame these!" Parris exclaimed, excitedly.
And that was the height of the baby shower.

Friend #66

I first met Friend #66 over an email. He was sending his reply to an invitation I'd sent him for my sister-in-law's baby shower. His grammar, eloquence with words, and spirituality reached out of the computer and made me almost stop breathing for a minute. All this in one little email.
His name is John Michael.
After reading the response, which had all the makings of an educated Southern gentleman in the early 1900's, I called my sister-in-law, Parris. "WHO IS this guy? I need to meet him!" Parris just smiled for a minute, "Oh, you're going to love John Michael!" I asked what his story was, and how a man could be so amazing in just one email. "I can't explain it, he's just wonderful." Great. Just wonderful. And although I'm solidly attached to my Michael, I couldn't wait to meet this man. Call it an English teacher's dream. And besides, I was pretty sure someone as fabulous as this man, was gay.
The day of the shower arrived and my hostess aura must have been shining because the first person to arrive shouted, "HI!!!" I spun around and saw this beautiful man who looked like the love child of Eddie Vedder and Robert Plant. Tall, with long, curly, dark hair, wearing a white linen button-down shirt, jeans and flip-flops. Before I could ask his name, this man gave me a huge bear hug and said, "Hi, I'm John Michael!" I was giddy and my Mike got a bit jealous, I could tell. We introduced ourselves for a minute and then he went to fill out a name tag. (I typically don't do name tags, but I found some really cool ones that said "Hi, My name is _____ and my special talent is _______" and "Hi, My name is _______ and I am the guest-of-honor's _______").
John Michael's name tag said "Hi, My name is John Michael and my special talent is Love." So perfect for such a man.
As I learned more about him, he revealed this: John Michael is a gay, republican, psychic/exorcist who actually attended the seminary. Intrigued? So was I! He emitted positivity, acceptance and grace. Everything he talked about was so joyful, it made me want to join whatever cult he was selling. (But he would never have a cult because he's too nice.)
It didn't surprise me that John Michael knew the entire beautiful gay wait staff at the restaurant. It also didn't surprise me that he had to leave early. (People that great always have a full social schedule, don't you know?)
I got another bear hug when he left and my teenage girl's heart sighed and wished I'd see him again.

Friends #64 and #65

I had to lump these two characters into one blog for the simple fact that for the entire hour I spent with them, they never left each other's side. And not in a good way.
Rachel and Chris are the parents of a little girl in Jack's class. We met at the Bouncy place where I brought the boys to play for an hour. Rachel introduced herself and immediately started talking about the kids' teacher Mrs. G. She asked me what I thought of Mrs. G and I told her that Mrs. G is one of my closest friends, so close, in fact, that she threw my baby shower when I was pregnant with Jack. I sensed that she wanted to gossip about my friend Mrs. G but she was cut off when her husband Chris introduced his self.
So there we stood, watching our kids bounce with Rachel on one side of me, and Chris on the other. This was a couple who didn't seem to be "in tune" with what each other was doing. Chris was talking in my right ear about his favorite band, Kiss (strange first conversation, right?) and Rachel was yapping in my ear about having Taco Bell on her shirt. Nodding in a forward direction seemed to be the way to go for me. When the kids moved to a new bouncy area, we did the three-person shuffle as we retained our positions. I tried to get away to check on Isaiah but these people just kept talking!
"...and then I told my daughter that she could not wear her jellys to school! Can you believe jellys are in style again..."
"...I just heard that Megadeth is coming to the Arizona State Fair! How rad is that? I'm gonna ask my neighbor if he wants to go..."
"...Hannah Montana...birthday party at 6pm tonight...teach Sunday school...Do you go to a gym?...Weight Watchers...my parents live off the 202 and Gilbert..."
"...when Metallica came to town I was in the 8th row...my other son broke his collar bone..."
How much can a person talk before realizing that the listener isn't listening? I remember learning the etiquette rules of conversation in 6th grade. Apparently these people didn't.
So for the rest of the year now, I will be avoiding this family at every social school event.
But before I left, they invited Jackson to their other child's birthday party next month. I'll just pretend I didn't hear them.

Friend #63

Indulgence will ruin a child. In my almost 13 years of parenting I have learned (and am still learning) to control what my children receive during non-gifting events. When we go to Chuck E Cheese, they get a set number of tokens and when they're gone, they're gone. I do not say "yes" to every play date or fun event that appears to us. My kids need to learn the idea of moderation in order to control their spending and impulses when they're adults.
This weekend I met Kim, who is the mother of Jeremy, one of Isaiah's friends. Jeremy rallied his junior high friends together for a fun get-together at the local trampoline and bounce center. I taught Isaiah that when he's invited to an event, he needs to approach me with his request to attend with the full story: who will be there, what time, where is it, how much will it cost, and how will you get to and from the event. He finally got all the information together on the first try when he asked if he could go with his friends. A dozen 7th graders would meet at 11am on Monday at the bounce center, pay $10/hr to play, and transportation would be provided by each kid's parent. Simple enough.
We arrived at the bounce center 15 minutes early (I am the sole early bird in Arizona and I thank my MN roots for that...Minnesotans like to arrive early to help the hostess set up, typically, and being late is looked at as rude and inconsiderate.) At 11:05, Jeremy and his mom Kim showed up. She and I chatted about the normal "mother of a preteen" issues as we waited for the other kids to show up. In the meantime, we discussed how long the kids would be allowed to play.
"I'm going to let Isaiah play for an hour and I think I'll stay and let Jackson play too." Although pleasant, Kim said, "Oh...well...I'm going to let Jeremy stay for the maximum - three hours. Isaiah's going to miss out on all the fun if he leaves early!" I kindly explained that I am all for letting my kids have fun, but I'm not going to cater my day off to my kids' play needs at a screaming $10 per hour play center.
Then two more moms arrived with their boys. "How long are you going to let your boys stay?" I asked one mom. "As long as this lasts!" she laughed as she held up a $20 bill. The other mom consulted with all of us before deciding how long her son would be allowed to stay. So it looked like everyone would stay 2-3 hours except for Isaiah, who was just excited to be hanging out with friends at all. Then Isaiah's buddy Tommy showed up with his dad, Joe. Joe is like me...practical. He and I decided that after an hour of playing, I would bring the kids home and Tommy and Isaiah would have a united front when they needed to leave "early."
While bouncing Jackson ran into his classmate, Emerson (whose parents will be friends 64 and 65.) At the one-hour mark, I went to gather the three boys and found the sweatiest, wettest kids in the world. I knew they had a blast and I knew they were ready to leave. They thanked me for bringing them and as we walked out, Jeremy ran up to us and asked me if I could bring him home. "But you still have two hours left!" I explained. "I'm bored and my mom's not coming for a while." I let him call Kim and she convinced him to stay, reminding him that she had paid $30 for him to play.
I laughed a little inside and walked out the door.

Friend #62

This has been the most precious week of my life thus far. I am a brand-new aunt. Something you must learn about me is that I love babies more than just about anything on this planet. Everyone knows this. I'm even a little concerned that a few students may have had babies, just to make Ms. Peters happy.

Being an aunt to a newborn is much, much different than being a mom. I don't have to wake up 10 times per night to feed the baby. I don't have the hormonal shifts when breastfeeding, showering, or watching baby shows on TV. I don't have to shuffle a newborn and a toddler on the same lap. I don't have to worry about returning to work.

All I have to do is snuggle with my favorite (only) niece, Kennedy. All she will ever ask of me is to hang out and I will gladly oblige. It's obvious that this 3-day-old baby already has me wrapped around her wrinkly little finger. The fact is, she had me at "I'm pregnant!" and then again at, "It's going to be a girl!" I could gush on and on about how wonderful this week has been, but then you'd never meet my 62nd friend...

As I drove to the hospital on the second night of Kennedy's stay, I wondered to my son, whether Pediatric nurses ever lose that "Babies are so precious and special" feeling. What I mean is, when you're helping deliver babies 40 hours per week, you see a TON of babies. Healthy babies, sick babies, cute babies, deformed babies, even God forbid, dead babies. At what point does one turn off their sensitivity button and just see the little critters as "clients"?

I made a point to ask my sister-in-law's nurse, Jo, about her career. I asked her if she ever becomes disenchanted with babies. "Oh gosh, no! Babies will always be special." Phew, I was at ease after that. "Now parents? Those are the ones you wanna smack upside the head once in a while!" I'm sure. I've seen parents all over town, but never in such a hectic and stressful place as a hospital. Jo told us about how families sometimes choose this time to air their grievances with each other and disregard any hospital staff who may interfere for the safety of the babies.

I admire Jo a lot. With the amount of giddiness I have toward babies, it would be heartbreaking to go into work each day with the possibility that I may have to hold a deceased child. Or an unwanted child. I compared me working in a pediatric ward to the time I volunteered at the Humane Society as a teen. I wanted to bring every animal home (I only actually brought three home over the course of a year.)

If I could do it, Jo's job would be perfect for me. But for now, I've got a little girl who has stolen my heart and that's good enough for me.

Friend #61

I hate bringing my kids to the doctor. When it's not a routine exam, it usually ends up with an order for some sort of blood test and as faithful readers know, my children (and 99.999% of all other children) HATE needles being jammed into their skin and veins.
My most recent excursion to the doctor was a follow-up visit to the Gastrointerologist for 6-year-old Jackson. Jack has always had issues with controlling his bowels. (See how nice I am? I'm making pooping his pants sound fancy!) We've had many close calls with being kicked out of preschools and day cares because of this issue, not that I blame them. Who wants to clean up a 4-year-old's undies? Not even me, his flesh-and-blood mother. After many trips to see our good friend, Dr. Joe, we received a referral to a GI doc. The first doctor we saw in June examined Jackson and ordered a complete "flush-out" since he was completely backed up like an overflowing toilet. This explained why he was eliminating his bowels unintentionally. The analogy the doctor used totally explained it. We did the flush and went on with our lives, with no change in Jackson's poor little tummy.
On our follow-up visit yesterday, we met the new GI doctor, Swati. She came in, played with Jackson for a bit and asked me about his lifestyle. My Jackson has his flaws, I told her, but health is NOT one of them. He gets TONS of exercise both in and outside of the pool (his dad's a swim coach, so he's training to be a fish.) He prefers broccoli to french fries at restaurants. He eats frequently, and well.
Swati ruled out a lack of fiber and stress as the causes to his bowel problems. Her next concern was/is that Jackson isn't digesting something correctly, so she ordered...wait for it....Blood Tests!
"Do you have any children," I asked the doctor. "I do not right now," was her reply as she gave me a look that said, "I know what you're accusing me of - not knowing how terrible it is to bring kids to get blood drawn." Which is exactly what I was thinking. She told me that she was ordering a battery of tests for Celiac, Diabetes, and a few other things. Knowing Celiac very well, I ruled it out in my head. Diabetes? Not so convinced either.
In addition to this blood test, Swati asked me to do another cleanse with Jackson this weekend. This translates into Jackson wearing a Pull-Up diaper, taking 8 Dulcolax over 48 hours plus double doses of Miralax every 8 hours. Not fun, but it works.
We went in for the Blood Tests today (our former vampire was not there this time to intimidate poor Jackson!!!) and everything went well! Jack was brave and only whined a tiny bit.
Swati seems to know what she's doing and for not having kids of her own - yet - she wowed me with her empathy. At the end of this visit with Swati, she gave him a toy, a sticker, AND a lollipop!
In two months we'll see Swati again. Something Jackson's excited about, because he can't wait to brag about how grown-up he was at the blood center.

Friend #60

Dwayne is the father of one of my very sweet students. I reach out to all of my students' parents during the first week of school to introduce myself and it was then, that I met Dwayne.
"Do you guys have sports?" was the first thing Dwayne asked me. I replied that economy situations have forced us to pause our sports program, but I could give him the names of community sports programs for his son. "Oh, no, I don't wish for him to play sports!" O...K...
Dwayne gave me his background story. In high school, Dwayne was a star athlete. Teachers did "favors" for athletes by altering grades and expectations so that they could play in games. In 11th grade, Dwayne's math teacher arranged for a college-aged tutor to DO his work for him. 40 years ago, teachers must have been different that we are today. When I was student teaching ten years ago, my mentor-teacher started off by telling me, "This school has a ten-time state championship record in wrestling, and we're all so proud. We teachers help the players out when we can." Which translated into, "We fix the grades." I was not willing to be a part of that and asked for a transfer.
This is the very thing that Dwayne wants to avoid for his son. He wants his son to genuinely learn things and enjoy school. Dwayne entered college completely unprepared, resulting in many failed classes and lost tuition money. Eventually he became a police officer but he always felt badly when he thought of his high school education. He wishes teachers hadn't made it so easy for him to not learn.
Dwayne has it figured out. As he says, "At the age of 57, school life is so much clearer than it was while I was living it."

Friend #59

Teaching English Language Learners (ELLs) is something I was thrust into when I wanted my old job back. I was at this wonderful school for at-risk students but became disenchanted. I made a move that I thought was "moving up" but ended up revealing to me that my calling is where the at-risk kids are, not in an affluent public school where everyone is very religious and pure and perfect. I lasted two years before I had to get back to my old school. Luckily, they accepted me with open arms and asked me to teach ELL.
Teaching ELL was the scariest thing I have ever been asked to do in my job. I've been the student council advisor, which forced me in front of 1.000 kids many times per year, and it didn't phase me. But teaching English to Spanish speakers is daunting. It takes patience, understanding, and lots of preparation.
One issue I ran into right away was two-fold: some kids were not only ELLs but also Special Ed or Genius-level in their home language. This is when I made my higher-ups aware that I needed someone more fluent than I, to assess their home language levels. Out Special Ed coordinator doesn't speak Spanish, so together we rallied for help.
Help came this week. After two years of asking, we received the help of a bilingual speech therapist. Reina has so far identified two of our ELL students who have speech impediments that may be hindering them to learn english as quickly as they could. Those poor students! They waited for four years in ELL classes before someone was able to help them! Their impediment was keeping them from passing their exit exams from the ELL program.
Now, thanks to Reina, these kids will receive the speech therapy they need so they can learn english faster and move on with their other high school courses.
I am so thankful to have Reina as my partner. The one day a week that we'll work together will be so useful and helpful.

Friend #58

Do you remember when you were in school and got something new and couldn't wait to bring it to school to show it off? In 10th grade I got a fluffy white kitten who I named Rajah. We adopted her right after school one day and I was so excited to show my friends, that I had my dad drive me to that evening's basketball game so I could show it off to everyone. Weird. I know.
And then there was the time when one of the students at my school came in for a parent-teacher conference with his mother. She was SO excited to show off her very ornery chihuahua, which she brought everywhere she went. It was her baby. (I'll refrain from going in-depth about how much I hate this dog.) The principal needed to be at this conference as well as the teachers. At some point during the meeting, the principal got up to get a piece of paper and the damn rat-dog bit him! The thing actually drew blood from the principal!
Fast forward to today. A student, Ashley, who I have had for two years now, asked me if she could wait in my classroom until her mom picked her up. We chatted about how her grandmother, Alona, passed away recently. She told me about her grandmother and how she used to make Ashley wipe the floorboards every time she visited. She told me about Alona's hate toward anyone outside of her own race. We discussed whether her grandmother was in Heaven now...or not. We had some really great laughs for the second day of school.
Ashley's mom arrived and Ashley got into the car. Her mom said something to her and Ashley did a little clap clap clap. "Miss!" I turned to the car. "Miss! Mira! Look!" Ashley ran to me with a box in her hands. I looked at the small box. I looked at Ashley. I looked at Ashley's mom in the car. The mom was smiling ear to ear, just as Ashley was. "Miss! My mom just picked up my grandma's ashes! Look!"
Yes, I stopped her before she opened the box. So although I never laid eyes on Alona, I met her today.

Friend #57

Back-to-school time was never so apparent as when I received a phone call from my son's new school's PTA president this morning at 7am. Yes, I said 7am. 7am. Not 7pm.
Not one to give in to early-morning phone calls, I let it go to voice mail and called her back at 8am. Her name is Ramona and she is the most enthusiastic PTA mom I've ever seen, and I've seen some crazies.
Ramona wants me to join the PTA. Ramona wants me to donate cookies for the Open House. Ramona wants my money...and my time...and my soul. Well, that's what it feels like.
I understand what she's trying to do, really I do. Both of my parents were teachers AND very active in PTA. I've always been involved in my kids' classrooms and donated what I've been asked for the most part. I've gone on lots of field trips (which I'm given the five most difficult students because the teachers think I can handle them with my super teacher powers.)
As my kids get older, I'm being asked to do more difficult tasks. The one thing Ramona really wants me to do this year is....wait for it....chaperone the junior high dances!
So my question is: Do I cave now and sign up for everything, dooming myself to two years of PTA hell, or do I kindly sign up for a few manageable tasks that will not drown me?

Friend #56

I like to learn about people's names. Usually there's a story behind our names and we take careful consideration when naming kids, pets, and in my case, stuffed animals.
When I found out I was having Boy #1, I was in a phase of reading the bible every night. One day, the name Isaiah popped out at me and it entered in the running. The next day at church, the sermon was based on the prophet Isaiah. Two days later, I was in the grocery store and I heard a mother scream at her son - named Isaiah. I thought, "How cool is that? Even when his name is being screamed through the store in anger, it still sounds sweet and happy!" So Isaiah it was.
With Boy #2 (don't even ask me how much I wanted a girl), his father suggested naming the baby after an artist. He chose Jackson Pollack and although I loved the name Jackson (it had been a choice of mine with Boy #1), I didn't want to name my child after an alcoholic painter. But Jackson stuck and here we are.
I take issue with parents who give their kids names that will fit with the career the parents want them to have. For example, I've known parents who give their child a beauty queen name, a rock star name, a sports hero name, even a good President of the United States name. The children are usually at odds with their name when they are a "Britney" and they want to go into politics, or a "Norman" who ends up as a dancer.
Today I HAD to inquire about the history behind the chosen names of two girls I saw in Target. Their mother was picking out a birthday card and the girls, about 6 and 8 years old, were playing between the clothing racks. "Justice! Liberty! Come here where I can see you!" Did she just call her kids Liberty and Justice...like the Pledge???
I spied on them for a bit to get a feel for the mom's mental state, and possible offense to a stranger approaching her with a rude question. She seemed cool enough. "Excuse me?" I approached. "I'm a teacher and have a thing for kids' names. Are those your girls' real names?" She smiled a smile that said I've heard this a million times. The mother, who I later found out is named Mary, told me the story. I was taken by surprise first of all, because she was so open to a stranger and secondly, because she stopped what she was doing and engaged in my curiosity.
Mary's grandparents (or maybe it was great-grandparents) were Holocaust survivors. They raised their children and grandchildren to truly appreciate the freedom that the United States allows us. When Mary was pregnant the first time, her grandfather was on his death bed. She told him that she was having a girl and that she wanted him to name her, should he die before he meets the baby. He pondered for five minutes and blurted out, "Liberty. The kid's name is Liberty." Mary and her husband weren't sure this would jive with their personalities and considered making Liberty be the baby's middle name. The grandfather passed away two weeks before the baby was born, and the named her Liberty Promise _____.
When Mary was pregnant with her second girl, her grandmother asked her what she was going to name the baby. "You can't give this kid a normal name now, you know?" Mary asked her grandmother for suggestions. "Justice, Peace, Harmony..." she said. So they settled on Justice.
Mary said that the girls like their names so far but high school could be difficult.
I reassured her that in a world of kids named Apple, Razor, and Inspektor, her daughters will be just fine.

Friend #55

I am a sucker for animals (I really am, except for hamster dogs.) Last weekend was the weekend for animal disasters: my son's hen, Amelia, died. Two hours later his gecko, Stewie, died too. 24 hours after that, one of our dogs broke his leg while he was greeting us at the door. We were left with one chicken, a tank of fish, and three dogs.

I knew I had to replace the lost hen first and foremost when I saw her sister running the perimeter of our back yard, crying for her lost best friend. This went on for a few days but surprisingly she continued to give us eggs.

I knew our two regular feed barns were out of hens for the summer. I turned to Craigslist and found a woman who had lots to sell. I called her and inquired about her location. She lives on the other end of town but was eager to sell those hens. "They're only $10 each" she grunted in her smoker's voice. I explained that I didn't want to drive that far but thanks. Three minutes later she texted me, "It's Jay, the lady with the chickens. I'll give you four for $40." How is that different from one for $10, I thought out loud. Hmmm. This crazy called me FIVE more times that evening and left messages. That was the end of my Craigslist endeavours.

The next day I discovered The Feed Barn in Phoenix. It looked nice online so we ventured through a monsoon storm to get our new girls.

There, we met the coolest, most dorky family: Mindy, Bob, Cory and Tasha. They own and operate the store. Bob's sweaty shirt greeted me before he did, at the door. He reminded me of that friendly neighbor who borders on creepy/special needs/redneck/life saver. He was dirty but soooo nice. He brought me to his wife, who showed us to the back barn where she keeps her chicks. I told her what I was looking for (two chicks, different breeds) and I introduced each breed to my son as we came upon each one. He decided on one hawk-looking one and named her Shakira for the celebrity's matching hair color. We chose one for my other son's birthday gift and settled on a gold Buff, now named Sunny. Isaiah pointed out that now Jack has two and he only has one hen, so I agreed that he should have two also. This is when he chose Bella Swan, a white Leghorn who is very feisty and bitchy.

The 17-year-old acne-infested son, Cory, checked us out and volunteered his 14-year-old sister Tasha to carry the 50 pound bag of feed to my car. "She's kinda small, isn't she? Can your dad get it?" I hoped. "Nah, Tasha does it all day long!" Cory replied, as proud as a brother can be. He nodded at Tasha with a "Watch This" look on his face.

And she did it! 90 pound Tasha hurled that 50 pound bag over her shoulder and marched over to my car. "I could carry it all the way to your house if you let me!" she yelled with what I thought was an Alabama drawl.

Isaiah and I got in the car and giggled all the way home. I can't wait until that 50 pound bag is gone and I get to go back there for more!

Friend #54

I have a new friend named Julie. She will be my new hair stylist now that my former one, Matthew, moved to California. But maybe not for long.

Julie tried unloading her Chihuahua's four new puppies on me during the entire visit. There are few things that annoy me more than chihuahuas. For one, the think they are bigger than they actually are, therefore acting like a Grizzly Bear with PMS is more than an attitude for them -it's a lifestyle. Another thing - their owners allll think they're soooo ceee-uuuute! They shed, they jump, they beg for attention, and that annoying bark!

Needless to say, Julie pointed out all of the wonderful things about chihuahuas (she has four of her own, plus the new babies. Gag.) "Right now they are the size of hamsters!" I thought dogs were created to hunt birds and coons and such...not run on a little wheel in a cage. I told Julie that if I wanted a hamster, I'd get a hamster and that by the way, hamsters don't bark or shed.

Then she informed me that these "little guys" are so portable, you can bring them anywhere. I already have the world's most grocery-store-shopping-challenged child, WHY would I add a barking hamster with the ego of a grizzly bear to the mix?

Luckily, Julie's last point of argument came during the blow dry part of my time in her chair. I heard waves of things like, "tiny, tiny widdle cwothes" and "celebrities..." and "couture collars."

For the fifth time, I reminded Julie that I have three wonderful, perfect fur balls of my own at home. None of which I clothe, talk to in baby talk, or buy gerbil wheels for.

The good news is that Julie's hamsters, er, dogs are up for "re-homing" (the new euphemism for adoption, puh-lease) in four weeks. I don't need a new haircut for at least three months.

Actually, now that I think about it and do the math, she could have a whole new damn litter of those gremlins by then. I think I'd better find a new salon.

Friend #53

Her name is Maggie. I met her today at our first teacher and staff meeting of the 2010-2011 school year.
Maggie is one of those people who look totally normal at work, but probably dress and accessorize like a club kid once they get home. She will be the receptionist at our new online school next door to the existing traditional school. I love meeting people that take me aback after I get to know them. I like to think I am like that: I am addicted to nice, high heels and dress rather conservatively at work but am a true hippy at heart and at home.
This is what I found out about Maggie: Her maiden name was Maggie Garcia. Her married name was Maggie Nunez. While going through her divorce, her lawyer instructed her that she had the option of changing her name (her lawyer actually meant, change her name back to Garcia.) Maggie jumped on the opportunity to let her 30-year-old self expression shine. She thought. She quizzed friends. She debated. Then she went to the courthouse.
She asked to be called Maggie Shinesbrightly. The judge gave her a look that asked, "Are you serious?" and then approved her name change.
So she is officially Maggie Shinesbrightly - Maggie Shines for short. I love that. I love that this woman wanted to give herself a name that shows the world how she sees herself.
In her personal life, Maggie is an artist. She plays numerous instruments, has a turn table, and her own studio in her home. But at work, she sits behind a grey metal desk and answers the phone.
How great would it be if we all re-named ourselves in our 30's? I'd be Claudia Wishingwell. Or maybe Serena Brasilia.

Friend #52

It's always interesting to see the world as a child sees it. Notice I said "interesting", not "cool" or "amazing."
Because Jackson's dad is an award-winning swim coach, Jackson has joined the swim team at the tiny age of five. And he's a tiny five, even though he'll be six in five days. That's something I need to remember in my next life: If you want tall children, breed with a tall man. I digress. Because he is so small, he is reluctant to go to team practice twice a week, since it is a team for ages 7-10. Getting him in the pool usually ends up in a bribe, or a consequence to be doled out later depending on our moods.
Jack has one "buddy" (5-year-old boy code word for "that kid I always play with and don't know his name") on the swim team - Aiden. I got to meet Aiden's slim, bubbly, smiling mom, Carol also. Carol is one of those moms who has it all pulled together - the job, the family, the body, all at the age of about 40.
Carol and I sat together at practice and I learned that she is a business owner and creates some sort of hair bow thingy for babies that she sells online. Oh, and did I mention that she has a slammin body??? She works out every day. Every day. And then there's the little job of raising four kids and supporting her husband who is getting his PhD.
I had to remind myself of all that I do: teacher, partner, mom, daughter, sister, aunt, volunteer, pet owner. Some how, it still seemed inadequate.
To top it all off, on the drive home Jackson pointed out - with NO prompting or discussion from me - that my tummy goes out ("Like this" he said as he made a round Santa belly gesture) and Aiden's mom's tummy is straight ("Like this" as his little hands went straight down his tummy." I asked him how I can fix that. "You have to exercise, Mom" and I reminded him that I use the treadmill nightly, but he interrupted, "No, you have to do this..." and made a weightlifting gesture. He was serious.
Am I doomed to have to hang out with larger moms just so my child will see me as healthier than others? How much does Jackson see weight in society? And where did he learn all of this???

Friend #51

I originally began this journey of blogging by searching out prospective friends in strangers - those people I'd normally never speak to. Well, I seem to have had new people thrust upon me without having to do any searching, and where's the fun in that? So today I decided to seek out a nameless person I'd heard a lot about but hadn't met yet.
His name turned out to be Richard. He owns the carpet and tile store which resides right next door to our school. Sucks to be him, but we were there first. I mean, his business isn't just in the same block as our school...it's connected in the Utopian strip mall that also houses the Department of Economic Security, a bar, a church, a restaurant, and a temp agency for the unemployed. Oh, and that damn Water and Ice store that beckons my students away from class when they're bored and hungry. Bathroom passes should be called "Water and Ice passes."
My boss told me yesterday that Richard, who has the pompous epithet, "Richard who hates teenagers", installed the tile in our new online school. "Wow" I thought. I wonder if he really needed the money, or if he just wanted some sort of claim to our school.
Richard's aura has always struck me as one that screams, "Get off my damn lawn!" when approached by children. He calls to complain about noise, loitering, littering, basically all the things that at-risk teens, or teens in general, do. I'm absolutely not defending the poor judgement of my students but I know their thought-process: "If you don't show us respect, we'll show you what disrespect looks like."
Being impressed with Richard's offer to tile the online school space, I decided to walk over and thank him. I waited for him to complete his phone call and introduced myself. Our conversation was one sentence long:
Grumble, grunt. "Yeah, well control your kids better this year!"
Peace out, Richard.

Friend #50

With the school year gearing up in two weeks - which is always too early for this Minnesota girl - I'm in a work mindset lately. This year our school is making some big transformations. Our middle school is no longer. This space has been turned into a grade 7-12 online school - the first (and sort of pilot program) for our charter company. This was an excellent move, since teachers cringed when asked to step in and sub for a sick middle school teacher. At-risk middle schoolers. Really? It was a recipe for disaster.
In addition, our high school has lost four teachers and so far hired one really good one (I hope.) I get to return to teaching English instead of ELL (English Language Learners.) I loved ELL, but was not formally trained to teach it and felt I was doing a disservice to the kids.
So today I met Linda, our new ELL teacher. I have to admit, when I found out that she'd never taught ELL before, I was nervous. Still am. People tend to believe that ELL is the easiest thing to teach, but it's very complex and individualized.
Linda hails from Gary, Indiana. She has two daughters, 21 and 16 who are very smart, according to Mom. Linda taught Special Education for 12 years in Indiana. Think about it - Special education and the rough gang-ridden area of Gary, Ind. Linda's school was across the street from the Projects, and the Project gang "claimed" her school. One day one of her gang-leader students was shot in the head on that street during school. Students evacuated the school, fearing retaliation and seeking safety. Linda was expected to continue teaching the two students who had stayed at school and was told that since the SWAT team showed up, she was safe to teach. Twelve years of that, Linda endured.
After Gary, Linda moved to Arizona and taught at one of our Indian Reservations for two years. This, she says, was almost worst than in Gary. In Gary, students didn't have the resources to get out of the gangs and the Projects. On the reservation, students and their families were given thousands of dollars each month. They had no food on their tables, but plenty of beer and drugs. Students were very silent in the classroom, as culture dictates, so it was very difficult to gauge their understanding of the lessons. Most days, Linda shared her lunch with her students, as they had no money for lunch. They'd leave school and drink themselves to sleep, then arrive back at school the next day hung over. Being hungover was a constant state of mind for many students. And Linda couldn't help them. Linda, being Black, did not have the moral right to give advice to her Native students. And after two depressing years on the Reservation, Linda resigned.
Understanding my student population would not be an issue for Linda. We hire many teachers who just cannot and do not understand at-risk people. They run from the school after Day 1. But my students are teachable, loving, successful, and helpful if you can reach them.
We went through the curriculum and discussed teaching strategies (using pictures, rather than teaching English by translating from Spanish, for example.) I told her that these students are my babies. She assured me that if they have problems, she'll send them to me. She gets it.
I'm looking forward to this school year. I get to train in a new teacher and see the fruits of my labor (I love teaching teachers!) I get to teach my favorite subject: English, specifically remedial English and 11th grade English. I get to observe and help the other teachers become better teachers by engaging students by using creative hands-on activities.
And even though later blogs may hint of my stress and anxiety during the school year, know this: I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

Friend #49

There are times, as kids grow older, that we parents realize that we never covered the newest chapter of the Parenting Book with our kids. If you can't cover that chapter in time, panic ensues as it is up to the child to make a snap judgement call.
At the cabin I met Mike. Mike is Justin's new friend. Mike knows nothing of Justin's past or how he's related to his step-sisters, he just knows that they're at an awesome lake and there's beer and boats and fireworks. At the age of 21 Mike is content working at Subway, going to college and drinking beer.
I saw in Mike a 9-year-old boy. He was just so excited to be at the cabin. He met Justin through some mutual friends at college and like the bro-code must dictate, they know very little personal information about each other.
As the beers flowed on the 4th of July, Mike told me and a table of neighbors that he will never own a motorcycle or a gun. He went on to recite stories of a few family members who died around motorcycles and guns. Mike and Justin both took to my 12-year-old son, Isaiah. They took on the role of big brother for the week and showed Isaiah how to kneeboard, ski on one ski, and wakeboard (unsuccessfully.) It was fun for Isaiah because older guys thought he was cool.
The next afternoon, four after happy hour had started on the beach, some friends asked me if I wanted to go on a boat ride. I brought my 5-year-old but Isaiah wanted to stay behind with his new "bros."
We were on the lake for 15 minutes when I saw Mike and Isaiah on Justin's jetski, doing crazy jumps and screaming with laughter. My heart raced. I was fuming at Mike and terrified for my innocent baby. I knew what Isaiah apparently didn't: Mike and Justin had been drinking (as we all do) for four hours and should NOT have been boating. Lucky for me, Mike saw our boat and drove over to ask if anyone else wanted to jetski with him. My neighbor saw that Mike was tipsy and asked if he could "Try it out." Mike and Isaiah climbed into the boat and the neighbor took the jetski to safety.
I have no issue with people drinking. I DO have issues with people drinking and driving or boating. When we were all on shore, I got angry with Isaiah and told him that he should have known better than to get on a jetski with someone who was drinking. But I had never reviewed that with him before. Who knew I'd be tutoring my 12-year-old on drinking??? He also didn't think to notice that the guys were drinking; hell, he doesn't even know what drinking does to a person, so I cut him some slack.
Later that night I told Isaiah about the effects of alcohol to our bodies, and what can happen if you drink and boat. He apologized with a voice filled with that "I-could-have-died" fear.
The next morning, I told Mike (in my teacher voice) that he should never drink and boat, especially with a child. Mike apologized profusely and I reminded him of the motorcycle accidents he told me about earlier, and that he needs to be more careful and responsible.
I learned very quickly that even if we think we have years to teach our kids about dangers, it comes sooner than we think.
I am now preparing my parenting speeches on sex, drugs, binge drinking, and driving dangers. Pray for me.

Friend #48

My time at the cabin brought to me lots of new faces and friends. I practically grew up at the cabin, so I assumed I knew everyone there. But children often introduce us to new people we might have never met otherwise.
One day, while looking for frogs and turtles in the swampy pond, Jackson yelled, "Mom! There's another boy about my age over there!" I told him to introduce himself and ask the boy his name. He seemed to do just that and returned. "Mom! He's 7 years old and his cabin is over there!" I asked, "What's his name?" "Uhhhh, he's my buddy! I'm gonna go play with him!" was all Jackson said. "But what's his NAME?" I repeated, but Jackson was gone.
Ten minutes later I went to check on him (I'm so blessed to have a place where my kids can roam for hours and I never have to think about kidnappers!) and he and his buddy had caught four bright green frogs. I did Jack's dirty work for him: "What's your name?" "DJ" he replied.
DJ's mom came over and we chatted. Her name is Shannie and we became buddies over the next few days just as our boys did.
Shannie recently graduated from nursing school. As she puts it, she "sucked" in high school because she didn't see any meaning to learning about things she'll never think about again. When she decided to be a nurse was when she had DJ. She wanted to be that nurse who was comforting and understanding. She wanted to have all of the answers her patients had.
Because of this passion, Shannie graduated at the top of her class with her nursing degree. And because of THAT, she was immediately offered two positions in her local hospital: an E.R. nurse, or in the operating room. She had four more days to decide, as of the day we talked about this.
I love it when people find their passion. Being passionate about your job makes those 40+ hours per week enjoyable and rewarding.
I often talk to my fiancee Mike about this. He is not passionate about his job. To him, his job is a way to earn money; a place to do his time 40 hours per week. I am VERY passionate about my job. Although I may dread going to work some days, I love feeling needed and useful to kids' lives. I love teaching them something new and cool.
And though that I hope I can help my students discover their passion.

Friend #47

I'm finally back from the cabin. I tried keeping up with my computer needs, but my dad's annoyingly flat keyboard drove me to the point of "no internet"! Can you believe that?!?
Justin is Matt's (friend #46) step-son. I have met Justin a few times in his childhood and knew of his life stories, but had not met him as an adult until the 4th of July weekend.
Justin's father killed himself when Justin was just 2 years old. Since then, he was raised by his mother until she met Matt and they got married. As one may assume, Justin has some skeletons sue to his father's death. Justin graduated in 2008 and went to college in Montana to "find himself." As he explained to me, he wanted to create "The Perfect Justin." Great idea, I thought. And there's no better way to do that then go away to college, learn about new subjects and ideas, meet new groups of people, and grow. Justin soon found out that he is who he always was: a boy from Grand Forks, ND with a scarred childhood. He returned home after his Freshman year feeling like a failure in his quest to reinvent his persona. He decided to stay home. Between Justin and his mom, they decided that a college two hours from Mom would be a happy medium. Sophomore year was no luckier in finding a new personality, lifestyle or interests. Justin just no longer wanted to be the kid whose dad killed himself 18 years ago. He wanted to rid his life of antidepressants and negative thoughts.
As we chatted and Justin opened up to me and a few close friends. He is now 21 years old and a nice young man who wants to be a nurse. I told him that this was a step in the right direction. He wants to help people who are lost like his dad once was.
The first four nursing classes Justin had last year helped him to see that he can use the life experience he was trying to repress to help others. This was not something his mom ever thought of. She was trying to help her son move on and forget his father.
Now that he's on the right track, I can't wait to see how he turns his thought-process around regarding his "troubled history."

Friend #46

Vacation brings a whole group of new friends for me to learn about. Being at our cabin in Northern Minnesota for the 4th of July is amazing. The whole lake horizon explodes with fireworks. When I was a kid, the city's fireworks were in my front yard, so we never ventured to the cabin, as we assumed it'd be way too quiet and dull. When we arrived on Friday, each cabin had at least four carloads of visitors. One of these visitors, however, was not supposed to be here.
Matt is married to my childhood friend, D'Lisa. They were both widowed in their 30s and left with a combination of four children. Because of the timing of my yearly cabin visits, I'd only met Matt twice before this year. Two summers ago brought news that Matt had developed a brain tumor and had three months to live. With twin daughters just starting college and one finishing up high school, this was not a good time to die and he knew this. Obviously and amazingly, Matt's diagnosis of three months to live sparked his drive to fight.
Two years later, Matt is here. He has visual reminders of his on-going struggles. The left side of his once-handsome face is now drooped down so much that he cannot open his left eye. But he's here. He has a ten-inch scar on his head that resembles Frankenstein's monster. But he's here. His younger daughter had a friend with her at the cabin, and she fought with her father over her vacation curfew (which later turned into a grounding), and as she stomped off in a fashion only a teenaged girl can, I'm sure she was reminded that although she was pissed, her dad was still here.
Matt still has battles to fight. The latest being his social security and disability being rejected. Really? This man who once supported his family (and entered two daughters into college) on a six-figure income, has been denied. His wife is a full-time teacher and has been lucky enough to keep her job through the two years of emergency hospitalizations and doctor's visits, college move-ins, her son returning to MN after realizing he hated his college choice, teenage tantrums, and her own parents' ailing health.
All I can hope is that the government decides to give this guy a break. Not even a break; Matt deserves what is rightfully his. I'll be following Matt and his wife more closely now that I had a weekend to learn their story first-hand.
Let's just hope Matt is around to watch the fireworks with us next summer.

Friend #45

Friend #45 came by accident.
I had a friend request on Facebook from a man named Howard. I've only known one Howard in my life, and that was when I was 18. I smile and laugh a bit when I think of that Howard. He and I had the kind of friendship one only has in their late teens/early-20s. I dated his best friend but had a crush on Howard, and Howard, in turn, accompanied us on double dates with my best friend while having a crush on me unknowingly. Schenangians ensued with my friend, but we'll protect her dignity on this blog.
You may see why I was almost giddy when I saw the friend request from "Howard" who had no pictures of his self on his page, just two cute little kids . But this wasn't THE Howard. My schoolgirl giddiness at the possibility of talking to a former crush was crushed. The initial friend request had a message: "Hi, remember me?" I accepted his request and replied, "Of course I do! How ARE you?!?" Wrong Howard told me that he is living in Chicago with a wife and two kids. I told him my abbreviated current life story. I asked him what he does for a living, and he told me that he's a personal trainer and in my mind, I thought "Very appropriate!" I asked about his mother, "She's good" he replied. He asked about mine, "She's great. She moved to Arizona when I had my second son."
I guess I never realized that I had not once mentioned Minnesota, the friend I dated, or anything identifying how we used to know each other. We only spoke of the present.
Wrong Howard asked, "Do you ever go to the USC reunions?" Wait........what??? I heard that record scratch sound in my head.
"Ummm, I know you from Minnesota, remember? I never went to USC." His reply? "Oh, oops, wrong connection, I guess. Sorry. Have a blessed life."
And that was it. The lesson I learned: Don't befriend people on Facebook if they don't have identifying pictures, and make sure you really know them before wasting a half hour of your life chatting.

Friend #44

Because I am home alllll day long in the summer (it's true, he pretty much stay home and succumb to boredom), I am the official appointment maker and follow-througher in the house. Between dog haircuts, kids' doctor appointments, birthday parties - and the necessary birthday present shopping - I am tired. I can write appointments on the calendar, in my phone, even confirm appointments, and I'll STILL forget. For example, two weeks ago, Mike was bitten by a scorpion while relaxing before bed. A rage from the depths of hell blew from Mike's soul; one that lasted a good 30 minutes til that "little fucker" was found. His anger yelled at me when I tried to help, and yelled when I stood by watching his tools of death: a screwdriver and a flashlight. There nothing I could do.
Mike killed the scorpion on the head of the bed next to the curtains while steam blew out of his ears. I had never been more relieved to go to bed - ever. That relaxed mindset flipped the next morning when Jackson announced that there was a dead scorpion at the foot of my bed.
Immediately I called our exterminator. We weren't set for a visit for 2 weeks. I had to wait and hope nothing showed up. I made the appointment for Saturday. I received an appointment confirmation for Saturday. On Saturday, our 8-10am window came and went. I called, because again, appointments are my responsibility, although I was looking weak right about now. There was no appointment made, but there was a note that I had called. Urgh. I made an appointment for today, between 8 and 10am, with apologies from the phone scheduler.
So this morning, Eric came over at 8am. Eric is obviously a morning person. I, on the other hand, rolled out of bed at 7:56am. As he sprayed the interior of our house, Eric commented on every single framed picture we have up. He asked if we travel. He played with my three dogs as he told me stories of his two dogs. He told me about his friend's dog who just died last week. He asked me if we got our lamp at Ikea. He told me about every item in his house that came from Ikea.
This little sprout of a man would not shut up! But his magnetic smile kept me following along. In the garage, "Whoaaaa who skates???" I told him that my son skateboards. He went to the backyard and a trillion questions and comments streamed about our archery set, our chickens, our diving board, our skate ramp. He said his wife is learning to skateboard (whoa! He's married??!? I guess it's possible...)
Eric reminded me of a curious 6-year-old neighbor kid who won't leave the neighbors alone. A Dennis the Menace, of sorts.
Eric asked me to fill out a questionnaire about him. I was nice, complimentary. He said that a good survey results in him being our exterminator next time. So every month from now on, Eric will be joining us for a bit of curiosity and random conversation. yay.

Friend #43

One of the "new, exciting" things we were supposed to learn at this week's "Technology Seminar from Hell" was how teachers can use cell phones in class. This is neither new or exciting. I have tried this in an attempt to "join them" after many tries to "beat them." Cell phones and ipods - but mainly cell phones - are the biggest roadblock for teachers these days. I now add Cell Police Officer to my title, and that seems to be all I do in the classroom the past few years. Five years ago it was easier because only a few students had phones and I could take them away during class time. Now, it can be a legal issue. Think about it: if I take a cell phone away and do not return it after class, the kid goes home and encounters some sort of distress where they need to call for help and I have their phone. Parents can sue the school now. Crazy, huh? Not to mention the number of calls students receive from their parents during class time, and if I don't allow them to take the call, parents get very upset.
One of the big proponents of using phones in the class is Laurie, who was leading the conference. She showed us websites like Polleverywhere.com, where teachers can have students text in their answers to a class poll. We had to do this every minute or two in the seminar for three days. It got very old. I voiced the fact that some students don't have phones and may be left out, and others pay for their texts (and what student wants to pay for educational texts??)
Laurie ignored my comments and continued telling the audience that this is a great way to use cells. I totally disagree, but that's beside the point.
On Day Two of the seminar, I found myself teaching a baby boomer teacher how to text so that she could participate in the polls. Laurie came around to our table and witnessed this. "It's lucky for you to have been seated next to a 15-year-old who can teach you!" (the 15-year-old she referenced was me). It has been said that I look very young for my 34 years, but 15 was just offensive. I failed at teaching the other teacher how to text because even with her reading glasses, she couldn't see the tiny letters on her phone.
Later in a breakout session, Laurie used polleverywhere.com after showing us a narrative PowerPoint with music that her 10-year-old son had created in school. The participants ripped the presentation apart because her son had not fulfilled his teacher's assignment as we knew it to be.
I got the chance to approach Laurie and one of her co-planners. I told them of all my qualms (regarding the seminar in general and texting in the classroom.) They responded by assuring that not all students were like mine, and that most students can handle using cells in school.
I asked Laurie how long she has been a teacher. Her response? "Oh, I'm not a teacher! No no no no! I have a degree in computers and my job is to pass along cool stuff to teachers!"
Me: 1 Laurie: 0

Friend #42

After taking a vacation from my brain for two weeks, I had to force myself to attend the first of a three-day conference on Technology in the Classroom today. I should have known something was awry when I got a confirmation email yesterday, stating that it started at 8am. Ten minutes later, I received a new email stating that it actually started at 10am. Ten minutes after that, another email stating that check-in was at 9:30 and the keynote was at 10am AND that we'd get parking passes at the seminar today (how were we supposed to get parking and later pay for it when they demanded payment before we parked this morning???)
At 10:25 - I hate it when things start late - the keynote speaker (if you can call him that) spoke about how we all have dreams and whatever dream we have, there's a form of technology to help us achieve it. Bad rendition of "There's an app for that." He thought he was funny. Then the next woman spoke about the U.S.'s horrible 80% graduation rate. Something we as educators hear every year and gasp in shock. We were sent to our breakout sessions 45 minutes late.
Kim, my 42nd friend, was my breakout session leader. She has been an elementary teacher and her grey hair proves that. She now conducts the teacher technology courses in an Arizona district. She has her Master's in educational technology. Or so she said.
First of all, we did the typical "State your name, school, subject area, the movie that describes your relationship with technology (gag) and what animal do you most relate to (double gag)."
I wanted to run home. And for a person with serious healing scars and back aches, that's bad.
After intros, we were told to power our laptops on, but mine would not connect to the wireless internet. I asked Kim for help. Her solution was to give me one of her laptops. I assumed correctly that she didn't know how to fix my issue. One of Kim's duties was to have us all log into the appropriate website and poke around. At 11:30, Kim announced that it was lunch time, which we all stated that the keynote speaker told us lunch was at noon. After checking and confirming that we were right, Kim voiced that she would "punt" as we call it in the classroom. So we shared interesting websites and project ideas.
At noon, we headed to lunch. It wasn't there yet (of course) so I decided to ask a woman I knew, Jen, if she could help me with my wireless, since she is a computer expert. Our noon lunchtime turned into 12:40. Our 12:45 breakout session turned into a 1:30 session. Chaos. No one knew what was going on. My boss paid $280 for me to be in this mess, so I made sure to text him and tell him what was going on. "I hope it gets better in the next two days, and I hope you're feeling better also!" was his dry reply. So, I now had no "out." I had to stay.
Kim led session two of the breakout session. In this session, Kim was to show us a powerpoint and lead a discussion of how we can use Skype in the classroom. This may have been nice, but Kim didn't know how to use a Mac and her PC was dead. Nice.
Kim called the seminar leader and asked her to bring a new laptop, which she did. A new Mac. More chaos ensued as we, the participants silently dozed into day-dreamland. "I'll get this, I promise" Kim notified.
My phone alarm clock buzzed with a reminder that I had a 3pm doctor's appointment. I joined Kim in the front of the room and explained, "I have a doctor's appoin..." "Oh, Go ahead! Have fun!" She probably wanted every participant to say they needed to leave. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
Tomorrow is Day Two of this disaster. Let's hope they have their stuff together by then.

Friend #41

I have often discussed and pondered what I would do the next time I encounter a wayward mother with unruly children while shopping. Today I had the opportunity to put my thoughts into action.
I did not make a friend today. I'm pretty sure this lady hates me.
From the time I shopped for veggies, through the frozen foods aisle and beyond the shelves of bread, all I could hear was "Stop that right now or you're gonna get it when we get home!" I looked down the aisle to see a mother in her late-20s and three children under the age of four. Quite the threat for such small children! It sounded like something a dad would say to a 17-year-old son after breaking the car engine.
I followed this family because my Ego and I feel that we can turn a family around like SuperNanny. In the rice aisle, the year-old little girl dropped her purple ZhuZhu pet. The mother yelled to the 3-year-old, "DO NOT give that back to her! I'm sick of the noise!" I reality, the mom was making much more noise than anyone in the store. Five steps later, I handed the animal to the girl and smiled at her. She stared at me with drool seeping down her chin.
In the meat section, the older children questioned each mound of meat, wondering what part of which animal each package came from. The mother yelled at them to stop poking the meat. I smiled at them and whispered that what they were looking at was pig's feet. Yay me! I satisfied a child's curiosity!
We all ended up at the checkout together. The older boy asked for M&Ms as the younger boy asked if he could have Mom's change after she paid. "PUT...THAT...BACK!" she yelled. "No you can't have my change, are you retarded?" Whoa. My mind fast forwarded to these children at home that night, next year, as preteens, as adults/parents themselves. I hoped that they will have nice teachers or other caring adults in their future.
The baby reached out to her brother, seemingly knowing that her mother would not carry her. The four-year-old tried pulling her out of the cart while the younger boy talked sweet baby talk to her. "You wanna KitKat? You wanna sucker? You wanna magazine?" It was so heart wrenching and heartwarming at the same time. "Leave her in there!" the mom grumbled. The older boy replied that he was just trying to help his mom. At this time, both boys started getting antsy and running in front of the store. The mom purchased her groceries and cigarettes and wheeled the baby outside. Having only few items, I was soon finished and found them parked three cars from me. The mother struggled to get them in her car. As I walked by, I played Peek-a-Boo with the baby and received a very dirty look from Mom.
I always feel badly for these kids. There wasn't enough time to educate Mom on how to parent her kids. There was no time or space for me to show the kids love.
I'm sure these kids will end up at my school in ten years. At that point, I will do what I can to un-do what Mom has done for years and hope I can teach them that adults are safe.

Friend #40

I want to talk about my doctor. His name is Richard. Richard is a doctor who also performs surgeries and is in constant contact with women. Richard is from New York City, the Bronx to be exact. Women issues + doc from the Bronx does not equal an experience you see on TV (well, maybe on House).
I immediately took to Dr. Richard because my sister had used him for her doctor needs in the past and there's something to be said about using your sister's doctor. At my first appointment in April, he was more thorough than any doctor I've ever had. He showed me an ancient (read: 1970s) book that illustrated my surgery over ten pages. He put me at ease with his "No nonsense" approach to cutting people open. "You do it, you go home and rest, you come back the next day. Bam, done" he stated.
I think I loved Richard at first because he reminded me of me. My lack of emotions mirrored Richard's Bronx bedside manner. In the days leading to my surgery people asked me each day, "Are you scared? Are you nervous?" No. I wasn't scared, nervous, upset, none of those things. I was ready to get it over with and focus on the recovery (which, by the way, was horrid - one week of recliner musical chairs and loopy brains.) People couldn't understand why I wasn't a ball of messy emotions the week beforehand. I'm with the mantra of the ants when talking about the bad bugs on "Bug's Life": They come, They eat, They leave. But in my case, I get cut open, I go home, I recover. Period.
The day of surgery, Dr. Richard was alllll business. Even though I'd met with him three times before, he didn't seem to remember me. Drat. But seriously, what made me so special that this doctor from the Bronx should remember me?
After surgery he was already on to his next patient. I didn't see him until the next day at my post-op visit. He asked me, "Ok, when was your surgery?" Really? This guy can't remember that he just cut me open yesterday??? I reminded him patiently that it was 24 hours ago. He said I was recovering perfectly. They come, they eat, they leave, I thought. I left.
I had my mom bring me back in the day after that, when I had issues with the gross drains in my abdomen. "Of course you're going to have problems, you just had surgery two days ago. Quit worrying and sleep sleep sleep." Ok, Dr. Bronx, I will.
Fast forward one week. One week post-op to be exact. Same scenario: Dr. Richard enters the room, asks me when I had my surgery, gives me the once-over and says I'm healing very well, tells me to come back in one week and leaves. They come, they eat, they leave.
The absence of empathy and love should have been expected. I mean, that's why I chose Dr. Richard in the first place. I can't pick and choose when people will be exceptionally nice to me and when they'll stay away (as I typically desire).
If I had to choose doctors all over again I would still choose Dr. Richard. He did what I asked of him. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm not shelling out money for people to coddle me when I'm in recovery. After all, that's what my children are for.

Friend #39

I am back! I took a week off, not by choice, but by the pain meds' choice. I was loopy and strange. And considering I've only been home and to the doctor's office in the past eight days, my new peeps are all medical personnel (still!) and I'm getting tired of it.
My surgery was Monday. Went well...I showed up, they had me lie down, all the nurses Ohh-ed and Ahh-ed at how pink and beautiful my skin is, someone pushed a needle through my hand and that was it. I woke up 5 hours later with a woman calling, "Kirsten, Kirsten? You need to wake up now." This was Cheryl. Oh, what an angel I was waking up to! "Kirsten, open your eyes now." I didn't want to. I wanted to sleep for days. Cheryl started telling me where I was and what had happened. I knew where I was though, because the anesthesia hadn't allowed me to dream that I was elsewhere. "Sweetie, you HAVE to keep your eyes open." And there it was: Oh My God it was a flashback from my college days and Shannon saying, "You are NOT going to pass out in my car! Keep your eyes OPEN!"
So I let out an airy laugh at Cheryl. She had no idea why I was smiling, but in my mind, it was hilarious.
After numerous reminders to keep my eyes open, Cheryl brought my Knight in, Michael, my hero. She gave him the directions for how to care for me in the next 24 hours until I returned for a checkup. The next thing I knew I was in the car. The next 24 hours were a complete blur of pain meds, trips to the potty, and Mike diligently taking my temp.
I spoke to Cheryl three more times that week on the phone, as she called to check in on me. I told her why I had laughed in the recovery room and she agreed that it could have been a moment from her college days as well.
One week later, and I'm still in pain, still a bit out of it, but I did my first load of laundry this morning.
This afternoon I have an appointment to get my drains (they are as gross as they sound) out and hopefully get permission to stop sleeping in my recliner. Fun times.

Friend #38

Again, going with the theme of medical personnel this week, we have the Doctor of Inappropriate Comments ...a.k.a. Dr. Brian, my boys' dentist.
My boys have been to Dr. Brian twice per year for five years now. I've stayed loyal through four different houses/areas of town because of his dental hygienist, Peggy. Peggy is the mother of four boys, all in their teens. She knows, loves, and fully understands boys. She knows how to get them to open their mouths "Open as wide as you do when you yell at your brother," make the spit go through the vacuum "Kiss the straw," and what questions to ask, "Do you have a girlfriend or are girls still yucky?"
On this visit, everything went as planned. Peggy performed x-rays, cleaned the boys' teeth, did a fluoride treatment, handed out prizes, and then excused herself while we waited for the dentist to go over everything.
Dr. Brian came in. He first checked Jack, who was very excited to show him his first lost tooth. Dr. Brian confirmed my fears that Jack will some day need braces. Cha-ching. Luckily, he is not our orthodontist, otherwise I'd assume he was in it for the money. Next he examined Isaiah's braced-up teeth. "What is the orthodontist planning for the gaps in his mouth?"
I replied sheepishly, "He's going to close the gap. He offered to do implants but I'm not big on cosmetic stuff unless it's medically necessary. It's $4,000 to do implants." Dr. Brian was not happy. But I was standing my ground. And that's when Dr. Brian became our former dentist Dr. Brian.
"If it were my kid, first of all, he wouldn't be wearing an Obama t-shirt." GASP! The two nurses in the room and I literally were taken aback. "Secondly, I'd make sure he got implants because by the time he's old enough to get them, he can pay for them his self."
Whoa, whoa, whoa, back the truck up for a second. "Did you just knock our President?" The dentist smirked. Even if Isaiah weren't wearing an Obama t-shirt I'd be offended. Even if Isaiah didn't 1000% look up to Obama because he, also, has a white mother and a black father, I'd be offended. Even if Obama had lost the election, I'd be offended. Even if it didn't put a tear in my child's eye at the thought of his dentist commenting that he didn't like his t-shirt, I'd be offended.
I could tell that my 12-year-old future astronaut/engineer/artist/filmmaker/president/actor was confused and dumbfounded. So we left. I told Dr. Brian that it is not his place to comment negatively on his patient's clothing, nor is it his place to smirk when called on it.
I passed the check-out desk that I've checked out of at least ten times before and asked that my records be mailed to me so that I could transfer dentists.
Looking back, I usually realize that I was over reacting with things of this nature, but when you hurt my child, Mama Bear means business. Goodbye Dr. Idiot.

Friend #37

I always feel strangely when I have to answer medical questions at the doctor or before giving blood. I hate the questions where they ask me if I take any illegal drugs. I mean, if I was taking illegal substances, would I admit it? And if I answer with an honest "No" they just have to believe me and move on to the next question. There's got to be a better process, like drug testing before donating blood or having surgery. Drug users = liars. It's that simple. I'm not sure why it bothers me SO much, it just does.
Needless to say, Mary was person #2 from my surgical center to call me this week. We went over all of the prescriptions and herbal pills that I take. Not only did I have to list the medications, but I also had to tell this complete stranger WHY I take each pill. Mary is a "by the book" person, I imagine. She has to be. But I started laughing - I mean, belly laughing, when she asked me what I take my birth control pills for. "I'm sorry, I have to ask" Mary replied to my laughs. "And what do you take Prozac for?" Really??? I decided to go there. "Well, I've had six of my at-risk teen students die in various ways over the past five years. The last two were two of my favorite students of all time. When each died, my world collapsed and I could not be the mother, partner, co-worker and teacher I needed to be while grieving. I still miss Eric and Brendan to this day and I hope for a connection to students like that each year. The pain never goes away, it's just managed." Chirp chirp. Mary was stunned. What came next was numerous apologies from each of us. Then we laughed together at the absurdity of these medical questionnaires.
Mary told me that she's proud of me for what I do and stated (as everyone does) that she could never do what I do. She looks forward to meeting me on Monday for my surgery and I'm sure we'll have a repeat performance of our laugh-attack.

Friend #36

Suzanna is my angel and I haven't even met her in person yet.
I got phone call #1 from the surgical center where I'll be having my surgery. Everyone keeps asking me if I'm nervous. I'm so not. I'm focusing on my two week recovery after the surgery because if I think about the surgery itself, I'll start freaking about maybe not waking up and my kids becoming orphans. Yeah, not good.
Suzanna is the keeper of records at the surgical center. She introduced herself in the sugary-sweet southern accent that I long for. "Are you nervous at all, sweetie?" I explained the absence of nervousness and she understood. We went through my surgery and what would happen during every step. Suzanna praised me for my - well, Mike's - preference for a surgical center rather than a MRSA-infested hospital. Suzanna was very nurturing and motherly which is not exactly what I need, since I'm not an emotional person, but I'm sure most patients appreciate.
As asked about recovery and what to expect. "Well, you're going to feel worse before you feel better. This isn't like a cut or scrape that gets better right away. You're going to progressively feel and look worse for about three weeks and then by a month, you'll start to get better." Then she offered something very personal and comforting: Suzanna and her daughter have both had the same procedure I'm having!
Suzanna gave me her daughter's phone number and said that she'd be delighted to be a phone-shoulder to cry on during my recovery. That's going to be a huge help, I'm sure.
A few hours later, I dialed Brittany's number. I explained who I was and she had been expecting my call. We talked about what to expect (she explained that her mom can't talk about her own procedures as an employee of the surgical center) and how to best care for myself.
I can't wait to meet and thank Suzanna in person on Monday.

Friend #35

The In-Laws are gone, back to NY after a whirlwind week-long stay. The house is back to being messy and I am back to being relaxed.
I am preparing for my surgery and subsequent two week bed rest in four days and that means doctor appointments for all!
Isaiah was reminded in March when he had his Sports Physical, that he'd never had his blood tested. This was the first time in three months that I could bring him in to get blood drawn while fasting, so away we went to our friendly neighborhood lab.
I started out the night before, telling Mr. Needle-Hater that he was going in to get his blood drawn the next morning. The football-playing, skateboard ramp-building, high dive-jumping 12-year-old turned into a puddle of jitters in .01 seconds. "No, no, no, no, Mom!"
I reminded him that for some crazy reason, he had never gotten blood drawn as a toddler, like his brother had and that if he could go back in time and talk to his 2-year-old self, it would say "Thank you."
Blood Day arrived way too soon for Isaiah. I reminded him to refrain from eating or drinking anything (BIG mistake, as we found out later.) We arrived at the lab, signed in, and waited for our number to be called, and soon after that we found ourselves waiting for an hour for the hard part. Isaiah listened to his ipod to distract his nerves. I secretly hoped he'd have a lab technician who was an understanding mother, filled with love and support.
"Eye-sigh-ae?" Apparently his name was being called. "Your turn, Isaiah", I urged. He shook, he breathed quickly.
Crap! Shit! Our lab technician was the same grumpy, old, middle eastern man that both Jackson and I have had. Syed is his name. Syed the Terrible. Syed had Isaiah say and spell his name and birth date for verification. Isaiah sat and shook his legs while doing lamaaze breathing and listening to his ipod. "Do Not Look at the needle!" Syed demanded. "You Must stop shaking! You're making me nervous! I can't do this with you shaking!" I wanted to punch the old guy. I offered, "Isaiah, look at the poster and imagine you're at the cabin." Isaiah looked briefly at the picture of an ocean sunset, but was quickly back to the needle about to enter his arm. "You MUST NOT look at the needle! Are you going to pass out? Do I need to do this while you're laying down?" Syed looked at me as if pleading for respite from this demon-child.
"He'll be fine." I stated, matter-of-factly. "Isaiah, you're fine. Do it." This was cake compared to Isaiah's 6th grade shots a year ago (that took two nurses and myself to hold him down!).
"I cannot get a needle in anywhere! Did he drink water this morning?" I got a lump in my stomach, "He was supposed to fast; I thought that meant no water either."
"No, No, No! He was supposed to drink lots of liquids! Now I can't find a vein!"
Shit again. At this point, Isaiah's ipod was turned up so loud so he couldn't hear Lord Syed and his Attitude.
Five more minutes passed and the needle was in. "See? It's in and you acted crazy for nothing!" Syed explained to a still-shaking Isaiah. We watched as the blood filled the two tubes. The needle came out and everything was fine again. Well, not for Syed. Even as we walked out the door, he was still shaking his head in disappointment and anger.
Dude, a little patience and understanding will go a long way in your career...just sayin.

Friend #34

Cowboy Bob. That's my latest friend...Cowboy Bob.
My in-laws are in town from NY and the one thing on their list was to pan for gold while they're in Arizona. Cowboy Bob was our scout on our $500 mission for gold this morning. That's right - $500 for four adults and two children to take a two-hour Jeep trip into the desert and sift for gold in the 100 degree heat.
We arrived at what was a very tacky "Ghost Town" place that advertised themselves as "authentic" but was obviously built for makin' money. We loaded into the no-door-having Jeep and off-roaded it for 30 minutes of me grasping my 5-year-old with one hand and the side of the Jeep with the other.
We all were disappointed (especially the father-in-law) to find out that this would be a dry wash gold panning excursion. This means that we loaded our pans with dry sand, added water from a bottle, and swooshed and swooshed and swooshed. No river, because (duh!) we never get rain here and all the rivers are dry. For $500 we each found tons of Fool's Gold, which the boys coveted all afternoon. In the first ten minutes, I found ten gold flakes and that was the highlight. Cowboy Bob was an excellent teacher.
Cowboy Bob is from the Midwest. He retired in 2008 and moved out to AZ to give 6-shooting a try as a Hobby. Not a hobby, but a Hobby. He loved learning about old western lore and soon found himself working part-time as a gold panning scout. He was great with the kids, pointing out that Isaiah's pan was filled with Garnet, something I didn't see since it's naturally very plum colored.
Cowboy Bob entertained alllll of Jackson's questions about bein' a real cowboy. He was patient and fun and possibly a bit sneaky, but also possibly very smart.
As we were driving the intensely bumpy road back, my father-in-law asked if anyone ever pans in the other dried up washes. "Not really, but this wash right here? I'm gonna bring m'wife here this weekend...a guy found somethin' here last week...." Is Cowboy Bob trying to entice us to spend another $500 to return, piquing our curiosity and treasure-seeking minds, or just being a jerk for not showing us the really great "fishing" spot???

Friend #33

The world really is very small.
I had to say goodbye to another graduating class of students...the Class of 2010. Saido is one of my very sweet students from Somalia. I met her sister Monta as I was hugging and hugging and hugging Saido and telling her how proud of her I am. I hugged Saido's baby - who showed me how he can walk now. I hugged Saido's husband. And pretty soon, Saido's entire family of sisters, nieces and nephews were all hugging me and my 12-year-old son whom I brought with me.
Saido has spoken about Monta a lot. When Saido found out last year that she was having a boy we both let out a disappointed sigh (see post #32). You see, Saido's sister Monta has four boys under the age of six. Like me, Monta would love a girl, but doesn't want to chance having five boys. (Parents of boys understand.)
Monta and I bonded at graduation. She thanked me for loving Saido while Monta and her family live in Minnesota. Minnesota?!? How did Saido leave this important bit of information out of her family bio??? I freak as I always freak when I meet another Minnesotan, 'cause we're cool people. "What part of Minnesota do you live in?" I eagerly asked Monta, but I really wondered if she's heard of St. Cloud. She said that she and her family recently moved to Minneapolis, Brooklyn Park, to be exact. "I know that area! I used to live in the Cities!" And before that........they lived in St. Cloud for four years!!! I was giddy and waaay too excited. "Oh my gosh! That's where I'm from! Where did you live? Where did you work? Where did you kids go to school?" Monta must have thought her sister had a nut for a teacher.
Monta's husband was a student at St. Cloud State, where I went. She worked in a grocery store and they lived very near where I grew up. They even frequented a Somali grocery just five blocks from my home.
Now, I understand this must be very boring for the average reader, but it was heaven for me. For a moment within the graduation chaos, I was home. I was blissfully remembering that place I tried so hard to run away from when I turned 18, then returned when I was 21 for a few years.
It's interesting how Home turns into home after moving away. Although I can't imagine how my Somalian students feel about their original home, I'm glad they can at least share my home.

Friend #32

I said goodbye to my baby today. He's officially no longer a baby. He's officially a first grader now and boy, am I having a rough time.
I've always envisioned having three children like my mother had. And no boys...just beautiful, fair-haired princess-daughters who would let me braid their locks 22 hours of the day (we'd play House for the other two hours.)
Recently, however, I had to come to the realization that at 34, I'm just too darn tired to have baby #3, not to mention take a chance on getting Crazy Wild Boy #3. It pains me, and it took a good two months to "mourn" the third baby that would never come to be, but I'm happy and peaceful now...at least I thought so until my baby graduated from Kindergarten.
Today I met Kolbie, who is 41 years old and pregnant with her 6th baby! Her children are 18, 14, 11, 6 and 2. Her son was graduating with my son and we bonded over tears that flowed with the growth of our baby boys. Kolbie works full-time in her family's business with her husband. She keeps it together, or at least it looks like she does. She and her husband will have kids until she can't have any more. Part of me envies her and part of me wants to yell, "Sucka!" at her for being a slave to her children. She pointed out that she has FOUR "graduations" this year...her Senior, 8th grader, 6th grader, and kindergartner. Yikes. That's a lot of celebrating for one week, if you ask me.
The thing that surprised me about Kolbie is that she looks neither old nor tired. She looks experienced and peaceful. She looks brave. She looks settled and established, especially with this 6th pregnancy.
I'm peaceful, settled and established also. I love my two awesome boys. I am excited to have a niece who I can spoil in a few months and in 6 years, I'll be attending her Kindergarten graduation and crying just as much.