Holy Atomic Tantrum, Batman!

            It was triggered by a sticky yo-yo and a ribbon baton, but escalated due to exhaustion and a rainbow sprinkled, chocolate frosted, cream-filled, finger donut.

Separate, the elements would have been harmless. Combined they created the perfect recipe for an atomic sized disaster.

            As with most stories, this one begins well before the disastrous event took place.  It began last night with the CBC television premier of Lucy’s favorite movie, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which was showing a good hour after her traditional bedtime of seven o’clock. Lucy, desperate to watch her favorite character on television, began negotiating. Jody and I, exhausted and hoping that a later bedtime for Lu would calculate into a later wake up time, happily negotiated, stipulating only one condition – that she make it through grocery shopping that evening without whining, crying and tantrums. Negotiations complete, all parties satisfied, we set off to the grocery store and an evening of shopping.

            Throughout the trip, Lucy was fairly well behaved, especially considering the full day she completed at school and her state of exhaustion. She was eager to help collect the necessary food items for her coming birthday party, and remained in a jolly mood by dancing and singing up and down the aisles. She had a mini meltdown over being told, “No” to fruit-roll-ups, but collected herself somewhat quickly, and did not resist riding in the cart when asked periodically to do so.

At seven forty five we left the store and headed home to turn on Rudolph, all the while thinking that it would be a miracle should she manage to stay awake for the car ride home, much less ten minutes into the movie. Surprisingly, Lu managed to not only make it home, but also managed to stay alert throughout the hour-long movie, finally making it into bed around nine thirty and falling asleep around nine fifty.

Imagine the surprise of both Jody and I when at seven the next morning, Lu was found to be plodding down the steps in eager anticipation of what Santa had left behind in her advent calendar and magic mailbox. So surprised was Jody that, after turning on the television to keep Lu occupied until I begrudgingly slid out of bed, he headed to work without  the food and presents bought for the underprivileged family his department adopted for the holiday season.

I had not been awake and out of bed more than twenty minutes, when I received a text message from Jody informing me of his mishap and asking me if I could deliver the goods to him at work as soon as possible. With thirty minutes to head out the door, I scrambled into the shower, threw on some clothes, brushed my wet hair, threw a jacket over Lu’s pajamas, slipped her into her boots, and informed her that we could dress her as soon as we returned home from delivering the packages to Daddy, and running an errand or two in preparation for her Birthday party on Sunday.

We had not been in the car two minutes when Lu started whining about being hungry. Understandable, since neither of us had had time for breakfast. Knowing this might be an issue, I promised her a treat at the Price Chopper just as soon as we were finished delivering the food and gifts to Jody’s school. Seemingly satisfied, she sang the rest of the trip and skipped happily into the school. However, just as we were about to leave Jody’s office, Lu once again began whining about being hungry. We narrowly avoided and utter meltdown by handing Lu a Smarties from the stash of Candy that Jody’s secretary keeps on hand. Lu trekked through the school and to the car, happily munching the whole way.

Once at The Price Chopper, I let Lu choose the breakfast of her choice, since she had been so amenable to the chaos. Without stopping to think, she immediately marched to the donut case and pointed to a rainbow sprinkled, chocolate frosted, cream-filled finger. Having an aversion to filled donuts of any kind, I tried diligently to coax her into something with a little less “ick” and a little more “yum”. However, Lucy could not be swayed. Sighing, I reluctantly packed the donut in a bag, dropped it into our basket and headed off to pick up one or two more items that we had forgotten the night before. Lu obediently followed behind, asking only once when she could have her donut and dropping the subject (an abnormal event for the ever persistent and pestering Lu) when I told her she could indulge in the car on the way to our next errand. Throughout the shopping trip, during check out, and the whole way to the car, Lu walked happily beside me, chatting about this, that and the other. Once in the car, she dove voraciously into her donut, finishing three quarters of it before we arrived at The Dollar Tree, less than five minutes down the road.

Happy she now had some semblance of food in her belly, I inquired as to her readiness to enter The Dollar Tree and pick out the plates, cups, silverware, and gift bags for her upcoming party. She eagerly replied, “Ready, Mommy. But can I get a sticky yo-yo while we are here?” A true believer in the appropriate use of bribery, I replied, “If you sit nicely in the cart and refrain from whining, crying, and demanding, then yes.” A cheerful, “Ok, I will,” followed.

Entering The Dollar Tree, Lucy agreeably climbed into the cart. As we moved from one aisle to the next, one item to the next, Lucy sat politely asking for red plates, cups, silverware, and party bags to match her Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer birthday party theme. With one or two items left on the list, Lucy asked if she could have her yo-yo. Thinking her manner pleasant and thanking her for her help, I agreed, but informed her that I still had one or two items. Laying out my expectations for the short remainder of the trip, I turned down the toy aisle where we both began searching the sticky yo-yos that we had seen at least a dozen other times. I was surprised and Lucy was disappointed when we came to an empty spot on the wall, where the very yo-yos Lucy was searching for were usually located. However, despite her disappointment, Lucy refrained from a tantrum. Instead, she politely asked if she could pick out a different toy. I agreed.

Scanning the shelves again, Lucy soon spotted a ribbon baton. The ribbon baton she had “always wanted.” Always wanted, apparently, until she learned that a pink baton was not available. As I recited her color options, I began to see her facial expression change from one of excitement to disgust. With anger she crossed her arms over her chest and in a low growling voice declared, “I want a pink one!” Not intending to buy her something that she would not appreciate, I informed her that if she did not change her attitude, she would get nothing. I then proceeded to review with her the true meaning of Christmas. “Sharing and giving,” she mumbled quietly under her breath. “Thank you,” I replied. “Now if you can apologize for being so demanding and whiny, I will let you choose another color.” With a tilt of her head and a succession of rapidly blinking eyelashes, she declared, “I’m sorry” in a sugary sweet voice and asked politely for the red baton. Cautiously, I handed Lu the red baton, and once again proceeded up the aisle.

Having now gotten what she wanted, Lucy apparently felt it unnecessary to maintain a calm demeanor. The whine crept back into her voice as she demanding that the shopping trip be complete. Stopping the cart, I sternly reminded her of her promise and my plans, and not so gently informed her that if she continued with her current behavior I would be confiscating the ribbon baton. Face set in determined defiance, she declared, “NO! It’s MINE, and I want to leave now!”

“It is my baton now!” I informed her, as I pried the ribbon baton from her fingers, and watched as her face pinched and mouth opened in an ungodly scream! Lashing out at me with her arms, legs, hands, and feet, she flailed wildly, tears streaming down her face. Taking a deep breath, I asked her to calm herself down and listen.

In retrospect, I should have hauled her out of the store right then, leaving my cart full of items in the middle of the aisle, for some poor sales associate to sort through and begrudgingly return to their rightful places. However, with only one item to collect and time running out before her party, I tried bargaining.

“If you can calm down by the time I count to ten and make it through the rest of the trip quietly and respectfully, I will let you earn the baton back,” I said. “One, Two, Three…” the tears slowed, “four, five, six…” her screaming and flailing ceased. “Good,” I said slowly beginning to move again, praying to make it two aisles over without another incident. Aisle One. Aisle Two. Spotting my item at the end of the second aisle, I moved in haste, knowing my time was limited. Apparently, I did not move fast enough.

“I WANT IT! I WANT IT! GIVE ME MY BATON!” erupted from Lucy’s mouth and ricocheted off the shelves, while she suddenly tried to propel herself out of her seat and into the main basket where I had placed the baton. Pulling Lu off the cart, before she tipped precariously over the side, smashing her head against the perpendicular shelf, I placed her on the ground and informed her in an uncompromising tone that the ribbon baton was not only returning to its rightful home on the shelf, but that she had also earned herself a time out in the middle of the store.

            Standing next to her in the middle of the aisle, I pulled out my phone in an attempt to start my timer. Lucy dashed to the edge of the cart in an attempt to grab the baton from the basket. Dragging her back to her time out spot, I once again attempted to start the timer. She once again darted. Placing her back in her spot again, I decided it wise to guess on the time.

            Lucy’s screaming once again ensued, piercing the ears of the Dollar Tree patrons. So angry was she that she not only attempted to hit and kick me, but also made a valiant attempt at pulling items from the shelves in an effort to fling them at my head.

            Having had enough, I hauled her forty-pound flailing body onto my hip, and struggled with one hand to push my cart around to the next aisle to return the ribbon baton to its rightful place. Turning the corner and entering the toy aisle, a couple standing nearby, smiled apologetically, as I quickly slipped the baton back onto its hook, and Lucy slipped off my hip, collapsing on the floor in hysterics over the loss of her beloved baton. Refusing to stand up, after having been asked, I was forced to haul her onto my hip again, still flailing and screaming wildly.

            With great effort and several hikes of her muscled mass up my hip, I managed to make it to the front of the store and the checkout line, where I was forced to place Lucy in a limp mass on the ground in order to unload the cart and pay for my items. Lucy proceeded to, again, try to fling items from the nearby shelves, compelling me to grab the back of her coat while simultaneously swiping my card and loading my bags back into the cart. So ridiculous was her behavior, at this point, that I could not help but smile and laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, while the men and women standing behind me in line reflected looks of horror, humor, and sympathy.

            Having completed my transaction, I moved my cart out of the way and prepared to hike Lucy onto my hip and struggle to the car. Lucy, however, sensing that no amount of crying would bring back the baton and descending from her sugar high, stopped crying and flailing, stood on her feet, and calmly asked to sit in the cart on the way to the car. Relief and disbelief swept over me as I slipped her into the cart, exited the premises, strapped her into her seat, and began the drive home with Lucy chatting enthusiastically about her birthday before falling into a blissful sleep five minutes before pulling into our driveway.

The Greatest Catch!

Growing up with an older brother who adored me had its advantages. I was not only regularly doted upon by him, but was also surrounded by his best friends who, instead of treating me as a constant nuisance, adopted me as their own and doted upon me, too. When building forts, my brother, Brandon, and his friends incorporated my love of princesses, by building me my own throne room, and, as knights, protected me against intruders and dragons. They fetched me my royal tea, my royal Oreo, or my royal kitty without complaint or question, chivalrous to the core.

When ensconced in war, GI Joe permitted my Barbie regular (conjugal) visits at his base camp, and was occasionally seen driving his Jeep around the dusty carpeted roads of our deserted living room.

When wrestling, Brandon and his friends took pleasure in body slamming me, as well as implementing the pile driver and the sleeper hold. Taking pity on my small size, they often allowed me the pleasure of jumping from the top rope (the arm of our couch), and with spaghetti thin limbs flying, tackling them to the ground for the count of three. They even went so far as to dub me THE GOLDEN “A”.

When performing gymnastics in the living room, or on our small patch of front lawn, Brandon and his friends never shied away from acting as judges, holding up their fingers in perfect tens, or, in the rare instance, disappointing eights. I frequently accompanied them to the bike path, creek, and local comic book store, where Brandon introduced me to Dazzler and She-Hulk, women with incredibly liberating powers.

 However, it was playing sports with the boys that I most enjoyed. Though I loved all things girly as a child (including princesses, ballet, and Barbie), I would eagerly drop my tiaras, tutus, and tits for the opportunity to climb trees, navigate the rocks by the creek’s edge, and tackle the boys in a game of football.

Not only did I love these outdoor activities, but I was determined to prove that, despite the differences in our age (five years), size, and sex, I could run, hit, kick, shoot and suffer a beating just as well as any boy, particularly my brother. I unconsciously knew that if I wanted to continue to receive invites into my brother’s world, I would, in fact, have to keep up.

Though my brother and his friends always treated me with respect, it was on a spring day playing baseball with Brandon and one of his best friends, Tommy, that I earned my own special place among them by making the greatest catch in history.

I preferred to be batting, or even pitching, rather than banished to the outfield where balls flew in every direction but my glove. However, complaining was not going to get me what I wanted. Therefore, I stood staring at Brandon and Tommy as they participated in the ritual dance of PITCH, SWING…PITCH, SWING, HIT, and CATCH. The dandelions and clouds were beginning to look more interesting than this game. I could be making wishes and imagining wild worlds made from white stuff. Instead, I stood on the outside, looking in on the fun.

However, just as my impatience with the lack of action I was receiving began to reach a fevered pitch, I heard a CRACK! A loud one! I began frantically searching the cloud-scattered sky for the small white ball. Suddenly spotting it coming in my direction, I began to calculate its exact location and move accordingly. Specifically backward. Back, back, back I went as the ball came closer, and closer. Reaching skyward, I felt the ball hit my glove just as my feet left the ground.

Landing on my back with a THUD, I felt my lungs empty themselves immediately. Gasping for breath, unable to fill my lungs, panic set in, and tears began to wriggle forcefully through my dirt caked tear ducts. Blinking, I gazed skyward to see Brandon and Tommy looming over me, smiles illuminating their faces with excitement. “That was awesome!” My brother exclaimed. Confused and still crying, but now able to breathe, I lifted my head, only to notice that I lay in the playground that bordered the baseball field, having tripped over the curb that separated the two. My glove, still firmly situated on my hand, encased the baseball. “That had to be the greatest catch ever!” my brother shouted, while grasping my hand and pulling me to my feet. Still shaken, and bleeding from my elbows, tears continued to stream down my face while joy began seeping into my conscious.

Brandon and Tommy continued to emote while lifting me onto their shoulders. With shouts and cheers of exhilarating disbelief, the two carried me home straddling their shoulders, while I laughed and cried the whole way. For the rest of the day, we animatedly recalled the events leading up the catch, as well as the catch itself. I fell into bed that evening exhausted, yet deeply gratified.

As I grew older, Brandon and his friends, continued to include me in their daily activities. I frequently found myself standing in the outfield during baseball games. Though I was never able to make another catch of the same caliber, I was able to earn my place among Brandon and his friends; a place one-step above annoying little sister.

Ants, Vampires, Monsters, and The Hand...Longing for Childhood Fears

My brother, Brandon, loved horror movies as a preteen and teenager. He would frequently watch them with our babysitter, Tracey, while I would do everything in my power to avoid seeing or hearing such nightmarish material by exiting the premises and riding my bike or roller-skating in the driveway. However, when hunger or the toilet called I was forced to make my way back inside, frequently catching bits and pieces of blood, guts, and ear shattering screams that sent me scrambling from the house in terror. Nightmare on Elm Street was the popular movie of the day. A movie that Brandon felt compelled to terrorize me with by describing the characters and plot in detail. For years, I avoided the basement steps at the school near our house where we frequently played because I was convinced that Freddy Kruger lurked just behind the basement doors, waiting to pounce on me without a moments notice.

When my mother became aware of Tracey’s poor supervision, firing her, and putting an end to horror movies, Brandon turned to telling me terrifying stories. He told me the story of a woman who, when sleeping, had ants crawl up her nose and lay eggs in her nasal cavity. The woman remained completely unaware of the creatures festering in her face, until the eggs began hatching, ultimately killing her. For years, I avoided sleeping on my back and favored my side in the hopes that ants would slide out of my nose before having the opportunity to embed their eggs in my nasal cavity.

I also slept in my daybed facing the wall in order to ward off the monster-like hand that my brother informed me lurked below, ready to grab me should I lower my defenses, allowing it the opportunity to strike. My bedroom door and closet doors remained open and well lit throughout the night in order to ward off the demons and monsters that lurked in the shadows.  I often clutched rosary beads beneath the blankets, which I pulled to my ears, securely covering my neck, to ward off blood sucking vampires and the Devil, who was always anxious to steal my soul. The rituals of brushing my teeth, washing my face, donning my pajamas, picking books for my parents to read, and receiving kisses, were also accompanied by blowing my nose, peaking under my bed, squinting into the dark recesses of my closet, and uttering prayers for protection and grace. Though bedtime was often stressful, sleep was mostly peaceful.

Three or four nights ago, I had a nightmare of such realistic proportions that I awoke to tears etching paths down my cheeks and a cloud of fear hovering above me much of the day. Images from the dream, so real and frightening presented themselves as anxiety producing flashbulbs in my brain rendering me immobile. For the first time, I wished my brother were present to tell me far fetched, fantastically frightening stories that, as an adult, produce bouts of laughter due to their ridiculousness. I wished that my fears could be easily diminished by sleeping on my side, turning on a light, opening a closet door, or uttering a simple prayer. I longed for rest and the peace that only a full night’s sleep can bring.

An Ugly Runner: Redefining Beauty

            I am an ugly runner. I trudge over the pavement. I do not float. I sweat, a LOT! When my body temperature rises, so too does the color of my skin. It progresses from tan, to pink, to a horrible blotchy red rash. On any given run, I am fighting shin splints, back pain, or neck and shoulder tension. My breathing becomes so marked that I sound like I am hyperventilating. Snot runs freely from my nose or from my nose into my throat giving my marked breathing a sickening rattle. I cough. I spit. I gag. I am uncomfortably aware of my wiggly parts. I am the antithesis of a pretty runner.

About six years ago, while running in front of Loyola College (now Loyola University) on Charles Street in Baltimore, Maryland, I lifted my head to determine my progress as I climbed what seemed like a never ending hill, only to see a very tall, very thin girl running toward me. With a high blonde ponytail that swung like a perfectly timed pendulum, and a light bouncing step, she trotted by me with ease. Her porcelain skin and unwrinkled matching Nike outfit were noticeably free of perspiration. As I trudged along in my bargain running clothes with sweat dripping steadily from my hair and forehead into my eyes, it took a considerable amount of will power NOT to stick out my foot and watch Little Miss Perfect face plant on the cement; tearing holes in her completely dry and unwrinkled outfit, while simultaneously scraping the skin off of her porcelain complexion and skewing her perfectly proportioned features.

Over the years, I have often been reminded of this run; while negotiating raised sidewalks, pot holes, and traffic in the Baltimore neighborhood of Roland Park as elite athletes with long smooth strides glided gazelle like by me; or while sweating buckets during humid summer days at the beach as college girls trotted by in sports bras, the only apparent bounce occurring in their perky little breasts. However, I was reminded of this moment most recently while running the Stone House Museum Half Marathon on September 11.

I began training eight weeks before the race, two weeks less than I had trained for last year’s Kingdom Challenge. The two-week loss in training, however, did not worry me since I had been running consistently throughout the summer. Two weeks into training my attitude changed as the height of the summer’s heat and humidity kicked into full gear. Every run felt like a struggle. The majority of runs were far slower than I had anticipated. My training regimen was inconsistent, due partially to an utter lack of motivation born from frustration with my training performance. Though the last eight weeks had been ugly, leaving me feeling physically, mentally, and emotionally unprepared, I forced myself to reassess my goals and slipped into bed the night before the race with only the hope of finishing, regardless of my time.

I woke up on September 11 to plentiful sunshine and frost; perfect weather for running. Even more perfect for running through the picturesque Vermont hills. I was less picturesque. Crawling out of bed at six in the morning rarely agrees me. Crawling out of bed to run in a race I am less than enthused about proves an even more frightful sight.

Standing on the starting line waiting for direction from the race coordinator, I began a conversation with a girl in her twenties who was excited to be running her first half marathon. She was what most twenty year olds are…perky, pretty, and peppy. Too peppy, I thought as I stood freezing my ass off while listening to her speak with enthusiasm about the next 13.1 miles.

In an instant, the race began and off she flew, her ponytail bouncing in perfect rhythm to her spring-like easy gait. If I had been next to her tripping her would have been my first thought. However, as I fought to keep her within my sight, I could only imagine her twisting her ankle as she stepped into one of the many potholes scattered across the dirt roads, or slipping on the loose gravel, scraping her ass and smearing dirt down her perfectly pert buttocks. At mile ten, when my energy was waning and my back seizing, she kicked into high gear and I lost sight of her. Forced to focus on finishing the race without the burning flames of envy beneath my bottom, I turned up my iPod, bent my back in an attempt to stretch it, and looked uphill at the last three grueling miles.

As I ran the last few yards to the finish line, I saw the peppy twenty year-old, standing on the sidelines cheering in a relaxed manner as if she had just returned from a day at the spa. Had I not glanced down at my clock and been astonished by my time (I shaved ten minutes off my last half marathon and was the third woman to finish overall) or failed to look into the beaming face of my daughter, my envy would most likely have turned to a deep burning hatred of all perky twenty year-olds. However, my accomplishment combined with the pride my daughter felt for her own accomplishment (she ran the shorter 5k occurring simultaneously as the half marathon) turned this beast into a beauty.

At that moment, I learned that no matter how ugly of a runner I may be, no matter how graceful and easy others may appear, my achievements and the achievements of my daughter are the essence of beauty; that though I looked hideous while running it, and even more frightful after running it, I had not only set a goal for my race, but had far surpassed even my own expectations. I had overcome my mental, emotional, and physical roadblocks. I had crossed the finish to look into the beautiful blue eyes of my daughter who, when asked about her own race exclaimed, “I won!”

Rain, Rain, GO AWAY!

          It is raining, again; reminding me that the warm, dry days of summer, in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, have once again, been unjustly evicted from the vicinity, by the cold, dampness of autumn. Days spent at the park, watching Lu, and her friends run wild with glee and excitement, while I enjoy the sun and adult conversation, will now become fewer, limited to those days without wind and rain. Bike rides, nature walks, and time spent digging in the garden will shorten like the days. Days will transform from unplanned and spontaneous time outside, to planned and creative time spent indoors, especially during those below freezing winter days, when fresh air freezes fingers, noses, and toes. I will feel the damp, the wet, and the cold creep below my skin until it crawls, forcing me to either venture out and find beauty in the glistening pavement, or find solitude in some sheltered location other than home.

            I find it difficult to believe that the wetness of autumn and winter never used to bother me. In fact, I used to look forward to those days when I could curl up on the couch with a pot of tea positioned next to me and an engaging novel clutched in my hand. During my four Oregon winters and eleven Baltimore ones, I made many trips to Starbucks. Memories of sipping a grande soy chai, or mocha, and nibbling on a pumpkin scone, both alone and with friends, fill my heart and warm my belly. I spent hours walking through Barnes and Noble, browsing the shelves for the next novel I would devour, the smell of freshly printed ink and bleached pages hovering heavily in the air, richly intoxicating. I would cradle one book after another in my hands, turn each cover from front to back, feel the resistance of the pages as I pulled open the book’s freshly bound spine, and listen for the crackle. The rain and the cold justified my lack of productivity. Fall and winter were times of rest, self-care, and rejuvenation.

            However, today, the autumn rain and winter cold remind me that I live in a house too small to accommodate the boundless energy of my highly inquisitive three year old. Autumn and winter no longer allow me the time to recharge, and rejuvenate, but rather tax my already exhausted system, as Lu and I bounce from one craft to the next, from one activity to another. I pray for the rain to stop and for the sun to appear. When the weather fails to cooperate, I pray for my child to nap. I lay next her, feeling her perpetual squiggling slow, and then stop. I listen for her breathing calm and watch her eyes drift shut and her face take on the peaceful visage of sleep. Creeping downstairs, I glance at a sink full of dirty dishes. I have hours to clean them, I do not have hours to sit, enjoy the quiet, and remember those days when autumn rain brought comfort and peace. I sit and enjoy.

My Soap Box on the State of Education

             Jody, like many men I know, is an intolerable channel surfer. The minute a show or movie transitions to a commercial his finger is clicking away on the remote control in search of another commercial free program. This drives me insane! So much so that we very rarely end up watching TV together for very long because his endless channel surfing more often than not results in missed scenes and half watched programs. When I begin a show or movie, I like to watch it continuously to the end, catching every tear, every smile, every laugh, every karate chop, and every bomb explosion. I utilize commercial breaks to grab myself a drink, a snack, or take a much-needed potty break. Most nights you will find me either nagging Jody to cease his endless channel surfing or, more likely, upstairs watching one of the programs he his downstairs flipping back and forth between. Therefore, imagine my surprise when last week, I found our roles reversed.

To say that education, and education in this country in particular, is an important issue to me is an extreme understatement. I chose teaching as a career, not only because I am passionate about learning, but also because I am passionate about the effects an enlightened education can have on individuals and the difference those individuals can make in society and in the world. Having attended both a Jesuit high school and college, I fully subscribe to the Jesuit philosophy that education should not only encompass the mind, but also the body and the spirit! That to study is to pledge a life dedicated to serving others. Therefore, I should have been thrilled when Jody came to rest on a program regarding the state of education in this country. However, I was soon begging him to change the channel before my blood boiled over, spilling from my body.

The program was, in reality, an interview. A Doctor of Education who specialized in the history of education, taught at a prestigious school, and who had over the years, been highly involved in the politics of education was interviewing a reporter who had just released a book outlining the problems with education in America. (I remember neither the man’s name nor the book, for good reason). I sat listening with interest, hoping that someone had finally published a book worth reading. I soon discovered that not only had this man NOT published a book worth reading, but that both this man and his book were only maintaining the political status quo and needed some serious educating of their own.

This man, like a large portion of the American population, believes that our educational systems are failing because teachers are not doing their jobs. He came to this conclusion by observing the actions of teachers in two New York City schools, one a charter school and one a regular public institution, though I must add that he never cited more than one teacher observation in the public school. According to this author, the teacher he observed in the public school was a lazy good-for-nothing, who did little more than sit at his desk, yell questions at his students, and wait for their response, whereas the teachers in the charter school were dynamic and interactive. This author argued that, as a result of these teaching styles, the children in the charter thrived and the children at the public did not, thus the stupidity of American children.

The argument that a teacher’s worth is based on the success of his/her students (which is measured through fact-based tests) is ridiculous and, frankly, a load of shit! The belief that a student’s success is not only the teacher’s responsibility, but also the school’s responsibility is the true reason our children are not achieving. The problem with today’s education is not the schools but the parents! Our society has allowed parents far too much freedom to shirk their responsibilities and place blame on teachers when their children are not achieving the unrealistic goals they have set for their children. Not only has education ceased to become the responsibility of the child and family, but disciplining, socializing, and even providing healthy meal options have ceased to be the parents’ responsibilities. Parents have rescinded their rights to the schools but have no issue criticizing and suing when those individuals involved do not act as the parents see fit. Teacher’s have their hands tied. That is not to say there are not horrible teachers currently standing in front of classrooms. However, every profession has worthless employees. Apparently, teaching is supposed to be exempt from the issues of humanity though.

During my years of teaching, I had several contentious parent meetings. I can say that the parents most irritated and angry with me, due to their child(ren)’s lack of achievement were those parents who did the least at home both in regards to their child(ren)’s schooling and disciplining, but resented my handling of their children. I very often wanted to ask these parents what they did for a living, and how they would react to me walking into their office telling them how to do their job. Until both children and parents are held accountable for their actions and educations, our country will continue to fall behind other industrialized nations. Until our country can break from the belief that all children are superstars and geniuses, destined to be professional athletes and CEO’s, every pursuit will end in disaster.

Watching this author interviewed on my television, I wanted to challenge him to stand in front of a classroom for a year; a classroom with forty two students, at least ten percent of whom have learning or behavioral issues, on top of the other children dealing with broken homes, poverty, and abuse; and then inform him that his worth as a teacher would be dependant upon his students test scores, and then savor the satisfaction of watching his face register horror and disbelief.

Sittin’ in The Red Zone of Heaven

            Throughout my elementary school career, no three words frightened me more than THE RED ZONE. The Red Zone was, in reality, several red zones, or painted red boxes, scattered around the edges of Sunset Elementary School’s paved section of schoolyard and reserved for those children who chose to disobey, act out, or disregard teacher instructions. Each day at recess, those children naughty enough to earn a trip to The Red Zone would sit inside those red boxes, isolated from their friends and denied the fun and freedom of outdoor play. Trips to The Red Zone while a temporary physical punishment were also accompanied by a dreaded mark on one’s permanent record.

            Earning a trip to The Red Zone was my worst nightmare; a nightmare I consciously avoided throughout my elementary school career. Never comfortable with unkind words or looks from the teachers I so admired, I strove throughout elementary school to listen, follow directions, and complete both class work and home work with care. I never dreaded a parent teacher conference or report card, but rather looked forward to the positive comments I was sure to receive; comments that my parent’s would hear and take pride in. The Red Zone, though a looming threat in my own mind, was never once threatened. Therefore, imagine my surprise, no my horror, when, in my last year at Sunset Elementary School, my worst nightmare came true with a trip to The Red Zone, and that highly dreaded mark on my permanent record.

           

            As a student eager to please, and used to being loved by my teachers, having a teacher that was indifferent to my charms was foreign and baffling. However, in the fifth grade my teacher, Mrs. F, was not only indifferent to my eagerness, but also unimpressed by my abilities. She was not, however, indifferent to Kay’s abilities. In fact, all Kay had to do was smile, and toss her blonde, ribboned curls and Mrs. F not only sung praises, but also practically broke into opera over the wonders of Kay. No matter how hard I worked, how well I behaved, Mrs. F’s loyalty to Kay could not be broken; everyone else was mediocre at best. Therefore, it should not have come as a surprise when one day after returning from a three-day absence without my homework completed (because I was deathly ill) that Mrs. F sentenced me to The Red Zone.  For me, a girl who had really only heard hushed whisperings of The Red Zone, a trip to The Red Zone, and for something as minor as not completing my homework due to illness, was not just surprising, but shocking.

            When Mrs. F asked me for the eagle drawing that was due that day, and I responded by telling her that I had yet to complete it due to my sickness, I expected her to obligingly allow me two or three more days to work on it. Instead, she stared at me crossly, told me I had been aware it was due for over a week, turned to her desk, pulled out the red slip indicating a sentence to The Red Zone and in the sickeningly perfect handwriting of an elementary school teacher began inscribing my name across the top. Each dainty swoop and swirl of the pen brought with it the unbearable screeching that accompanies nails being painfully scraped down a chalkboard. Stunned, I turned, walked zombie like back to my desk, and stared with unseeing eyes at Mrs. F as she began the next lesson. It was not until the recess bell rang and she forcefully thrust the slip indicating my internment into my hands that the reality of the situation hit me. Tears burned hot and fast down my face. Snot ran flood like down my throat and out of my nose. Gasping for air, unable to stop the torrential downpour, I lumbered my way out of the classroom and onto the schoolyard, The Red Zone looming before me. Next to me, my best friend, Laura, walked, arm around my shoulders consoling me, talking to me, trying her best to calm me by lessoning the torture, easing the pain.

            Time is deceptive. Memories tricky. As vivid as my memory of being sentenced to The Red Zone is, my memory of sitting in The Red Zone is short-lived and somewhat foggy. During the fifteen to twenty minutes I sat in that square, two things ring true; Laura acting as the perfect friend by giving up her entire recess to sit next me, just outside of that red square, and console me as I sobbed the entire time; and the sounds of laughter, jump ropes, and screams that daily accompany children at play.

            With Laura’s help, I managed to stop crying and finish my day in relative calm. Though I do believe the flood gates once again opened when that afternoon, upon being asked how my day was by my mother, I was forced to relive the nightmare that was my sentencing to The Red Zone. I was not only ashamed, but also feared my parent’s disapproval, their disappointment in the child that had never been in trouble. However, never normal, my parents reacted with laughter. The emotional trauma I had suffered was to them amusing; so amusing and poignant that my trip to The Red Zone inspired my father to write a country western song. The laughter and hilarity it brought my family dried up my tears and helped me to see the hilarity of the situation. However, Mrs. F’s lack of sympathy for my emotional state, as well as her never-ending loyalty to Kay (the name she chose for the daughter she had soon after my exit from the fifth grade), forever earned her my disdain.

A brief exert from Rodger Coupe’s Song “Sitting in The Red Zone of Heaven”

I’m sittin’ in The Red Zone of Heaven

Repenting for the sins of my life.

My Inner Geek: Back to School Excitement

I noticed this morning, while painfully struggling through a 10-mile run, that though warm and muggy, summer is beginning to wane; shadows are lengthening, clouds are becoming more prevalent, sunset creeps in a bit sooner with each passing evening and nights will soon require sweatshirts and long pants for warmth. The novelty of family time is beginning to wear on my patience as I yearn for the school year to begin, for Jody to return to work and Lu to start another year of pre-school. I am beginning to yearn for routine and the comfort and sanity that a predictable schedule delivers, while simultaneously mourning the end of summer warmth, spontaneity, fresh air and fun. And while all these thoughts swirl haphazardly in my head, I remember the anxiety and excitement that I felt, first as a student and then as a teacher, as the end of summer quickly approached.

Every year I was in school, since about the third grade through becoming a teacher, the end of summer brought with it a nightmarish, anxiety-inducing dream. One in which, I was standing outside my school (this varied depending upon where I was attending or teaching) holding my school schedule. Printed clearly on my schedule was the time school started, and my classroom or first period class. I was, as always, at school 15-20 minutes early, in order to allow myself the necessary time to find my classroom, and settle in to my desk. However, in my dream, I find myself wandering lost among the halls, unable to find my classroom. With each building I enter, each numbered door I pass, I feel my heartbeat elevating until, it is not only racing, but I am racing up and down hallways on the verge of tears. In some scenarios, I end up finally finding my classroom, only to walk into class late, producing embarrassment and mascara smearing tears. In other scenarios, I end up entering the wrong classroom, producing more embarrassment, tears, and extra anxiety. Each time I experienced this dream I woke up sweaty, teary, and extremely nervous about the coming school year. So much so that I often went to school days ahead of time, to find my classes, physically map out my schedule, and prepare myself for that first day.

Ridiculous! Yes, I know! However, school was and remains today one of my greatest joys and accomplishments. Jody likes to joke that if I could find a way to make money being a student, I would. I would most definitely be a perpetual student could I afford to do so. My feelings toward school are no different today than they were at thirteen, sixteen, or twenty-one. I bask in being a student, and was thrilled each year when the “Welcome Back” letter that so many students dread and abhor, cheerfully popped up in my mailbox.

Returning to school meant back to school shopping, not only for new trendy outfits, but also for school supplies. Choosing binders, dividers, pocket folders, and pencils made my heart super happy! Assembling and organizing my school supplies was akin to reading an incredibly engaging book! I became thoroughly immersed! It meant finding out and/or buying the books that I would be reading throughout the year, freshly cracking the spines of new books or inhaling the comforting musk of used books. Back to school meant seeing and interacting with friends regularly, as opposed to sporadically throughout the summer, due to conflicting family vacations, and camp schedules. It meant late night football games, acting in or attending school plays. Back to school meant new love interests and new friendships. It meant dances and dressing up. Back to school even meant the anticipation of vacations. It meant school spirit in the form of spirit days, homecoming, and rallies. It meant loving teachers, and hating teachers. Going back to school meant intellectual discussions, eye opening information, and life changing experiences. Returning to school was returning to life.

Each year I spent the day before the first day of school carefully choosing and laying out the next day’s outfit, checking and double checking my school supplies for any missing items, packing my backpack, packing my lunch, triple checking my schedule and situating all necessary items by the front door to ensure I did not forget anything important. After fretting, organizing, and arranging, I would then spend the rest of the day stifling my anxious excitement with phone calls to friends or the television. In the evening, I would lay in my bed lazily dreaming of the year to come, the future fun, and the dreams to capture. In the morning, I would wake, the geek in me fluttering with anticipation and excitement as I walked out the door and back to school.

            I must admit that because I am no longer teaching or in school, I find myself living vicariously though Lu. When she began school last year, I found myself fretting and fluttering as if it were my first day back. To date, Lu loves school, and seems to get as excited and anxious as I did throughout my life. I hope that of all my traits she has inherited a bit of geek. It will make her next 20 or so back to schools a lot less painful. However, if she is like her father when it comes to school…

My Sixteen-Year-Old Self: A Reflection and Contest Entry - Part 1

Thanks to the Diet Coke drinking habits of my husband, and Coke’s rewards program, I receive several magazine subscriptions free. One of the magazines I receive and read regularly is Martha Stewart’s Whole Living Publication. Each month the magazine asks its readers to submit answers to a question about health, life, and relationships. If your answer proves creative or endearing enough, it is published in the next month’s issue and you, the writer, win a variety of products. Each month, I take note of the winning answers, and contemplate how I would answer the next month’s question. However, I have never taken the initiative to enter an answer. Whether due to my lack of interest in the question, my lack of time, or the other more pressing issues topping my “to do” list, I do not know. This month, however, I had fifteen minutes and a passion for the question. Therefore, I decided to take the initiative and send Whole Living an email to their question, “If you could go back and tell your 16 year old self one thing, what would you tell her?” The following is that email:

I grew up in, what used to be, a small California town. As with most small towns, running to the store or enjoying a sundae at the local ice cream parlor was a social event, since we would inevitably run into one, if not two or three, people we knew. Misbehaving was out of the question, since getting caught was unavoidable. Though some people would find this sense of community stifling, I loved it. I continually felt loved and protected. Today many of my friends still live within a 30-mile radius of my hometown. I, however, have lived in four different states, in four different regions of the United States. It often pains me to watch my best friends raising their children together, having girl's weekends together, and continuing to bask in the joys of a small tight-knit community. I often have to remind the sixteen year old inside me, that the places I have lived, the experiences I have had, and the people I have befriended, though not what I had dreamed, have shaped me, my life, and my outlook, in a positive way, as opposed to a negative way. That though I do not have the life I once dreamed of, I have something more real and dynamic.

Running – Fitness, Confidence, and Serenity…NOW!

Fitness

My career as a semi-serious runner began shortly after moving to Baltimore and at the beginning of my third year of college. Always physically active (I played basketball throughout junior high, danced throughout high school, and during the first two years of college ice skated four to five times a week), I found myself three thousand miles away from home, at a new school and in a new town lacking the resources I had previously depended upon for physical exercise. Forming a relationship with Jody, an avid runner, was, therefore, propitious timing.

            When I first met Jody, and for months after meeting him, I was unaware that he was a runner, and an avid one at that. I knew that he swam in high school and college and that he coached two swim teams, a club team and his school’s team. I knew that he played tennis growing up. That he played golf and worked at a golf course one summer. I even knew that, as children, he, his brother, and their friends liked to play Evil Knievil by jumping bikes over each other while lying in the dirt. However, I did not know he ran. That is until I inquired as to his whereabouts after an almost two-week absence from work. He answered, “Ireland with my dad.” “Touring?” I asked. “Yes” he very nonchalantly answered, “but mainly went to run the Dublin Marathon.” I must admit that at that time I had no idea that a marathon entailed running 26.2 miles. My knowledge of marathon distance was limited to “many miles”, especially to run. I believe my jaw was slightly ajar in “ah” at the time. However, I must have appeared the gawking idiot as I pried further, only to find out that Dublin was not his first marathon. In fact, it was his third or fourth in addition to several triathlons.

As our relationship progressed from friendship to formal dating, Jody and I often talked about running and its physical benefits, but more importantly, we discussed the emotional and mental health benefits that he derived from hitting the pavement 5-6 times a week. It was these discussions, my increased lack of physical activity, and my desire to find a sport that did not require gyms, dance studios, or ice rinks that drove me to lace up my running shoes, which I had only ever run in once or twice, and to venture out for my first very painful, pathetically short run.

Confidence

            Not only were my lungs on fire, but I was developing a sharp cramp in my rib cage and I was only a quarter of a mile into what I hoped would be a two mile run. By a half a mile the cramp had worsened, my breathing had quickened, and my legs were beginning to feel gelatinous. However, I pushed on, hoping that I could get into a reasonable pace, take a deep breath, and, if necessary, complete the two miles I had hoped to accomplish without stopping to walk, even if it meant running at a snail’s pace. At three quarters of a mile, I stopped. The cramp had become so severe I could barely stand up straight. My legs were giving out on me and I was gasping for air. I was mad. Make that livid! My body was not doing what I wanted it to do and the confidence I felt ten steps into my run was now ground into the pavement by my sparkling new running shoes. I walked the three quarters of a mile back to my parent’s house feeling hopelessly defeated and questioning whether I would ever do this again.

My therapist once told me that anger is, in reality, a positive emotion. Unfortunately, individual’s negative actions because of anger have made it a taboo emotion. However, anger is a driving force, one that, when used positively can help achieve great things. Thank God, it is not in my nature to surrender gracefully. Otherwise, that first run would have been my last, depriving me of a life long sport, confidence booster, and coping mechanism.

The blind rage I felt at the end of that first run motivated me to venture out again, completing a mile; then again, increasing my runs by another half a mile, until I was running three miles regularly and working my way up to four miles, three to four times a week. During many of these runs, I felt like stopping, throwing my hands up in the air and saying, “Fuck it!” However, the thought of failing fueled my anger, forcing me to ignore the physical pain, silence the negative voices in my head, and focus on the finish.

Soon I was training for my first five-kilometer run, a small fundraiser that began and ended at Jody’s place of employment. Most novice runners would simply strive to finish the race, and if I were not such a perfectionist, I would have been smart to do so. However, being the perfectionist I am, I set two goals for myself. First, I vowed not to stop and walk and any point during the race. Second, I strove to complete the race in thirty minutes or less, a not unreasonable time considering the ten-minute mile average I had been maintaining.

The moment I committed to the race, my nerves were highjacked. The thought of stopping at any point during the race produced tears of frustration. The thought of finishing with more than thirty minutes on the clock made me want to scream. In order to calm my nerves and release some tension, I decided to run the course the race would take three or four times before race day.

Standing on the starting line early that misty Saturday morning, I thought I might vomit. My nerves were wound so tightly they would have twanged if plucked. When the gun went off signaling the start of the race, I stood stunned for a moment before I remembered that I must put one foot in front of the other. Heart pounding in my chest, I took off, remembering that three quarters of the race was a steady uphill climb, and pacing myself was the key to achieving both my goals. I plugged along steadily, watching a handful of individuals sprint by me, stop and walk, then sprint by me again a half a mile later. I trudged on trying to ignore the uphill climb by staring at my feet and the pavement in front of me. While reciting, “I think I can, I think I can” repetitively, I looked up briefly only to realize I had reached the summit. My heart leapt with joy. All I had to conquer was a downhill mile. I crossed the finish line in just over 29 minutes, having run the entire race.  

Driving home that morning, I felt accomplished and confident. I had not only set a goal and achieved it, but also overcome my own doubt and nerves. I had pushed myself both physically and mentally, running a distance that six months before would have been unthinkable. I had competed against myself, and I had won.

Serenity NOW!

            Most of my friends, and a few brave souls that have dared to ask, know that my daughter, Lucy, came into being through In Vitro Fertilization. Less well known is the severe post-partum depression I suffered approximately 5 months after her birth. Having a baby is a life altering experience. An experience that though joyful, is also physically, and emotionally, taxing. The coping mechanisms I had previously used in order to deal with stress, such as a couple of hours alone or the ability to have a good soul cleansing cry, ceased to be options with an infant whose every need I was responsible for meeting. Through intensive therapy, an hour every day when at my worst, I not only got to the heart of my anxiety and depression, but also worked on formulating a list of coping mechanisms that had worked in the past and could be fit into my daily routine with Lu. Conversation after conversation, list after list resulted in one reliable answer: exercise.

            When Lu was small, running was not the best option. We lived in Baltimore city. Pushing a running stroller in the street was unsafe. Pushing the running stroller over the pitted and pitched sidewalks was not only difficult but I feared would give Lu whiplash. Therefore, I turned to walking. The worse I felt, the more I walked. Most days I walked no less than 4 or 5 miles. My schedule soon revolved around my morning walks to Starbucks and when Lu was nine or ten months old, the playground. From 9am until noon, I walked. On the rare occasions Jody was not working, I snuck in a run. That walking, and those periodic runs, not only helped me lose what was left of my pregnancy weight, but also saved my sanity.

            In 2009, Jody and I moved to Vermont to create a better life for ourselves and for Lu. For the first time in the twelve years we had known each other, Jody would only be working one job. Shortly after our move, we began working on a schedule that allowed both of us the opportunity to exercise by alternating days or meeting up at the gym after Jody had had the opportunity to work out. I once again began running three to four times a week and lifting two or three times a week.

            In August of last year, I registered for a half marathon. I trained for ten weeks battling sickness and the inclement weather that a Vermont fall can produce. However, I also treasured those healthy days when my long runs consisted of brilliantly crisp, indescribably beautiful fall days through the Vermont countryside.

The day of the marathon brought with it freezing temperatures and snow. The route, described as moderately hilly by the coordinators, included a thousand foot climb. Despite these factors, I crossed the finish line a mere four minutes shy of my two-hour goal and surprisingly at peace with my “failure”.

            Motherhood, and life, remains as challenging as it did three years ago. The challenges just change with each passing day. The crushing depression I suffered from three years ago, periodically tries to rear its ugly head. However, it is on those bad days that I now lace up my running shoes, plug into my iPod, and bask in the knowledge that the next thirty minutes to an hour will bring me solitude, clarity, and an increasing sense of serenity.

             

Ashley R.: A Fart and A Smile

Ashley R: A Smile and A Fart

I accepted the teaching position at Mercy High School, an all girls’ school, because, frankly, it was the only offer I had received upon graduating from college. It was hardly an ideal position. The school failed to pay its teachers a living wage, the English department head was an absentee head, three of the five English teachers, including myself, were new hires, it demanded teaching five classes with three preparations (all four of the other teachers taught four classes and had two preparations), and it was, after all, an all girls’ school.

            I am not now, nor have I ever been, a girl’s girl. I generally prefer hanging around guys more than chicks because men are rarely cold, caddy, or dramatic. I have never had a plethora of girlfriends simply because I cannot stomach the games and backstabbing that usually accompanies the female race. The girlfriends I have had over the years are straightforward, intelligent, driven, and generally defy gender stereotypes. Therefore, working with a staff comprised mainly of females, and teaching approximately 135 females, all at the height of teenage drama, did not give me the thrills or the excitement I imagined my first teaching job would produce. However, I gave myself two years in the position to develop the necessary experience to find the teaching career of my dreams, and hoped to find a handful of students who shared my love of literature and all things academic. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would find a kindred spirit in the form of Ashley R.

            A petite girl, Ashley could not have been more than 5’5” at the time I taught her, she often wore her hair piled high on her head in a ponytail that bobbed as enthusiastically as she spoke. A natural brunette, Ashley highlighted her hair blonde, as if in protest against the dullness of brown. Her eyelashes, which were extraordinarily long and always coated in mascara, framed wide eyes, giving her what appeared to be the vapid stare of a porcelain doll. Rosie cheeked and red lipped, Ashley was a walking Mary Kay advertisement.

            Ashley’s physical appearance, combined with her ever-present smile, light bouncing step, and dramatic inflection when she spoke made it easy, upon first inspection, to write her off as nothing more than an airhead cheerleader with hardly a brain and even less depth of personality. However, Ashley had the power to captivate and surprise with her exuberance, humor, and spirit; that left little doubt as to both her extraordinary intelligence and depth of character.

            It is hard to reconcile the fact that I do not remember the first time I met Ashley with the lasting impression she has had upon my time at Mercy and my life. I am sure I called role on the first day of class. I am sure she answered, “Here.” A response that would have been, for Ashley, entirely mundane. More likely and appropriate would have been a barrage of questions from her, regarding the class, regarding the books we were going to read, and regarding my personal life.

            Each time Ashley raised a hand, I both dreaded and eagerly anticipated the coming question or comment. I never knew whether Ashley’s contribution would be meaningful and insightful or so humorous that the tenuous order I fought hard to keep would dissolve into complete chaos.

The year I taught at Mercy was the year of my engagement. Though all of my classes loved to try to distract me from the task at hand by asking me questions about my wedding, no one succeeded in doing so more than Ashley. I simply could not refuse her eagerness and zeal. Her genuine interest in knowing and understanding people captivated me. Most memorable, however, was Ashley’s penchant for farting in class. A trait that after Parent Day, I believed would cost me my job.

Each year, during Catholic School’s week, Mercy allowed parents to visit our classrooms. I simply dreaded this day. I had several difficult classes, full of students who had mastered the art of lying and manipulation. I felt that allowing these students’ parents into my classes would only give these girls the opportunity to negate the suggestions I had been giving their parents regarding their academics and behavior. Ashley’s class was not one of these classes. In fact, it was the class I most enjoyed teaching. Therefore, it did not concern me when I had the largest number of parents’ attend this particular class; these girls were well behaved, studious, and fun.

The class began as every class did, with role call and journal writing. With ease, we then transitioned into the lesson of the day, a writing lesson. Things were going smoothly. The girls were participating respectfully. I was happy. Things seemed to be in control. That was until Ashley began farting, and the class began hilariously laughing.

When I say Ashley farted, I do not mean that she sat quietly at her desk and tried to conceal her indiscretion. Ashley was a proud farter. If her farts did not make the necessary noise to attract the attention of the class, the smell did, and she would, without embarrassment, claim the smell as her own. Ashley’s farting was so commonplace that the girls eventually began to direct every “icky”, “yuck”, and “gross” at her. Throughout the year, I struggled to address her farting in a professional manner because, frankly, I found it hilarious and most days had to struggle not to laugh aloud.

Therefore, I found it particularly difficult on this day, with parents’ judging my every move, and panic setting in, to not only regain some shred of order in my class, but to also address Ashley’s farting without exacerbating the situation and encouraging the behavior. As calmly and firmly as I could, I said, “Girls, that’s enough. It is time to calm down. Ashley, do you need to use the restroom?” A large grin spread across Ashley’s face, as she shook her head no.

 With the class now chatting, snickering, and generally acting like wild squirrels, I attempted to continue the lesson. Ashley continued to fart. The parents continued to stare. I felt a hot red rash fight its way from my chest to my neck and conquer my face. I stumbled my way through the remainder of the lesson, tripping over my words, and praying for the peace and sanctity of my car; all the while feeling like a naughty child who would, the next day, be called into the principal’s office for a verbal thrashing.

            Ashley was a leader. She could control a crowd with a look, a laugh, or a comment. Her peers admired her. Her teachers adored her, and not because she was an A student who sat at attention and listened with interest and intrigue, but because she was dynamic, energetic, and full of pizzazz. Ashley was also interesting and optimistic. However, most importantly she was simply herself.

            In October 0f 2009, Ashley was killed in a car accident. I remember being at home, in my living room, when Jody delivered the news. At first, I was convinced that it was a different Ashley R. Ashley R., the girl who farted in class, who had a special way of saying, “Miss Coupe”, who made me laugh daily, and who embodied what it means to live could not possibly be lifeless.

I write this with tears in my eyes, and then I think about the last time I saw Ashley R. and I smile in remembrance of her vivacity. She was a senior, working at Abercrombie and Fitch in Towson Town Center. Jody and I had gone to the mall for a romantic food court dinner. As we walked toward our destination, I heard the unmistakable voice of Ashley say, “Miss Coupe?” After chatting for ten or so minutes about how she was, what she was up to etc., we bid Ashley farewell in hopes of seeing her again sometime soon. Though three years had passed, Ashley had remained unchanged. She was, and will remain, the one and only Ashley R.

Comfort

This morning progressed like every other Tuesday morning. I woke around seven to Lu crying, “Mommy, I need to go pee”, ushered her into the bathroom, prepared her breakfast and lunch, bundled her up for the walk to school, bundled myself, and headed out the door (all while listening to her whine and cry about nothing in particular). Having arrived at her preschool we went through the necessary routine of stripping her layers, washing her hands, shoving her backpack, coat, snowsuit, and lunchbox in her cubby, writing her name, signing her in and kissing her goodbye. I arrived at home ready for a cup of coffee, some tummy warming oatmeal with blueberries and maple syrup, and a bit of quiet relaxation before heading to the gym for an ass-kicking, sweat-inducing workout. However, I decided that before making myself too comfortable in the warmth of my home, I should try to start my car, since the cold temperatures have made it moody, some days starting immediately, some days starting after 10-15 tries, or refusing to start altogether without a jumpstart. Putting the key in the ignition, my hopes were high. After all, I had run it the day before despite it taking 15 minutes or so to get started.  The first turn of the key resulted in a quick VROOM before the engine shut down completely. This caused me no worry, this had happened before. The second turn of the key produced the same results. Still I had gotten it started after trying many more times than this. Five or six tries later, the VROOM ceased and the CLICK, CLICK, CLICKING of a dead battery began. “Wonderful,” I thought and headed inside with the intention of working out later in the evening, once Jody could come home and either provide me with transportation or work his magic and get my van running.

            Feeling frustrated, and more than a little exacerbated, I prepared myself that much needed cup of coffee and oatmeal, knowing that at that moment the two, combined with some quiet “me” time, would provide me with the necessary comfort to get me through the day. In the course of these preparations, I began to think about comfort, what it means to be comforted or to give comfort, the times I most need to be comforted, the importance of being comforted and giving comfort, and both the small and large things that comfort me on a daily basis.

            One of my numerous carnal rules as an English teacher, when writing a paper, is to avoid opening a paragraph with a definition, or using a definition as an attention grabber. Comfort, therefore, is both a verb and a noun, defined by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary as giving strength and hope, or easing the grief and trouble of an individual or group of individuals. It means to cheer or console. Comfort is a strengthening aid, consolation in a time of trouble or worry, a feeling of relief or encouragement. Comfort is also a contented well-being or a satisfying or enjoyable experience. Comfort is a surprisingly powerful word. It is a surprisingly powerful action. It is a surprisingly powerful concept.

            I am a person who likes order, organization, and control, not necessarily over other people, but of my thoughts and actions, as well as life’s outcomes. These three traits are both my greatest strengths and my greatest weaknesses.  Chaos, messes, and mayhem cause me anxiety, frustration, and anger. Comfort helps me process these feelings, and regain a sense of control and clarity.

 As a parent, I find that I am frequently the comforter as opposed to the comforted. An irony, since it is usually I who needs more comfort than Lu as I struggle with feelings of doubt regarding the daily decisions I make for her, for myself, for my relationship, and for my family. It is me who needs comfort as I fight the pure exhaustion that comes from taking care of another’s physical, emotional, mental and spiritual needs 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; and it is me who needs comfort as I try to reign in the complete and utter madness that the presence of a child entails, especially a child as gloriously spirited as mine. With little time and even less energy, the years have taught me how to seek comfort in the smallest gestures of friends, in the smallest items, and in stolen moments with myself.

 A trip to Barnes and Noble, a run to Starbucks, and a kind word from a stranger excite me. A shopping trip by myself leaves me euphoric these days, while watching birds fly to and from our bird feeder mesmerizes, and calms, me. Compliments from friends, a warm house, the smell of apple pie baking in the oven, and a hot shower without interruptions all result in a dimpled smile. Running hard with angry chick music blaring on my iphone not only brings me a measure of contentment regarding the shape and size of my body, but produces sun fuzzies in my brain, otherwise known as endorphins. Jody offering to take Lu for an evening or a day makes me feel loved and cared for. A glass of sangria relaxes me and makes me forget about the chaos around me, if just for one evening. Looking at old pictures helps me remember the happy days of my youth, the carefree fun with friends basking in the warm California sun and recalls joyful firsts; my first love, my first dance, my first kisses, my first vacation, the first time I moved, and my first adventure. Creating and maintaining my blog allows my brain the necessary outlet for its wanderings, frustrations, memories, and musings. Each of these comforts is necessary for my daily sanity. However, it is my contact with friends, specifically through Facebook, that provide me with the most consistent comfort.

I am, admittedly, a Facebook addict. I post frequently, check profiles frequently, and leave comments for my friends frequently. Having now lived in four different states, in four different regions of the United States, these small gestures allow me to feel connected to friends whose physical absences I feel on a daily basis. Facebook allows me to exchange blows with the loneliness and isolation that staying at home and being so far from home (meaning the west coast) can entail. Witty comment exchanges, email messages, and photo comments on Facebook are enjoyable distractions. They provide me with a feeling of relief and encouragement. Facebook reminds me that despite time and distance, I am continually loved. That my friends are working daily to comfort me, even if they are unaware that they are doing so. Facebook also allows me a means to comfort my friends. With the click of a button, I can send encouragement, condolences, and laughs. I can be both comforted and comforter, both noun and verb.

My First Bra - An Auntie Jean Story

My Auntie Jean knew how to laugh. Not the polite laughter of someone struggling to find amusement in the midst of life’s foibles, but the true gut wrenching, tear streaming, peeing your pants laughter of someone who knew how to find beauty, glee, and hope even while drowning in heartbreak. A fan of Lucille Ball and Monty Python, Auntie Jean found humor in the inane, in the ridiculous, and in the ordinary. However, I think nothing amused her as much as the human body. Body shapes, bodily functions, and body cycles provided hours of entertaining and, to my prepubescent self, embarrassing discussions. Ironically enough, these embarrassing discussions have led to my fondest memories, not only those of Auntie Jean but also of my adolescence, and all the awkwardness it entailed, while also providing me with life long laughs.

Gangly, boyish, and flat best describe my physique at the age of twelve, and at sixteen for that matter. However, despite my lack of womanly charm, I craved the curves that so many of my friends and classmates were quickly developing, including my best friend, and Auntie Jean’s daughter, Valerie. Periods, pubic hair, and bras were regular topics of conversation amongst my girlfriends. I listened with a growing sense of excitement and horror as my friends, including Valerie, talked about first kisses, fondling in dark movie theaters, and hickies. Topics my friends’ parents generally avoided were openly discussed, and laughed about, in both Valerie’s house and in my own. Therefore, it was no surprise when one day while having a ladies day lunch (which included myself, my mom, Auntie Jean and Valerie) the topic of breasts arose.

Breasts are not a subject individuals usually discuss over lunch. They are definitely not a topic individuals usually think to discuss while enjoying a fondue lunch at The Melting Pot in downtown Berkeley, California. However, there the four of us sat with breasts on the mind. How my breasts, or Valerie’s breasts, crept into the conversation I do not recall, but in the course of conversation, our desire for, and need for bras arose. It was becoming uncomfortable to play sports, embarrassing even. Boys were starting to notice the non-bandaged mosquito bites beneath our shirts. Many of our friends were wearing bras and were beginning to talk, to distinguish between wearers and non-wearers. We were ready to be women! Our mother’s were ready to joke, jab, and most importantly, embarrass! However, recognizing our need, formulated a plan for the remainder of the day.

At the time, my mother was a student at The Pacific School of Religion, which was a part of the Graduate Theological Union a collection of 9 religious schools in the area. Conveniently enough the Graduate Theological Union Library was located in Berkeley, a short distance from The Melting Pot. It was here that we speedily traveled, all the while listening to Auntie Jean and my mother crack jokes about “training” bras and “training” boobies.

My Auntie Jean carried a purse, or “pocket bag” as she liked to call it, similar to that of Mary Poppins’ carpetbag. If you needed an item, she would shuffle through the apparent chaos and very nonchalantly present you with that item. She believed in preparedness for all events, even, I believe, natural disasters. Therefore, it was no surprise when, upon entering the library and being quickly ushered into the ladies’ room, Auntie Jean, ever the seamstress, rummaged around in her bag and presented us with a tape measure. Standing in the middle of the bathroom, Auntie Jean then instructed Valerie and I to lift our arms in order to take our measurements and determine our bra size. Our laughter echoed off the tiled walls, disturbing more than one library patron in the process. Our business complete, we hastily exited the library, embarrassment apparent by our red faces and nervous giggles.

I was, and still am a very modest individual. I have never been comfortable with showing inordinate amounts of skin, or accentuating my body with skimpy or tight clothing. It was not until college that I owned a bikini and even then made it a point to wear some kind of cover-up unless working on my tan. The public display of women’s undergarments in department stores made me squirm in discomfort. I may have wanted cute bras and panties, but I did not want the world knowing how intimately those flimsy pieces of material were caressing my skin. Walking into the intimate apparel section of Macy’s department store while my mother shopped was embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as choosing items for myself; especially, when men, women, and children were passing by on their way to buy innocent sweaters, jeans, and turtlenecks! As much as I wanted a bra, I did not want to display the fact that I was wearing one.

Therefore, imagine my horror when Auntie Jean and my mother ushered Valerie and I into the intimate apparel section of Macy’s and in concert hall crescendo inquired of the dour faced sale’s lady where the “training” bras were located.  My horror turned to utter mortification when that same dour faced sale’s lady insisted on measuring Valerie and I again, in the middle of the sales floor, in order to accurately check Auntie Jean’s measurements and properly calculate our sizes.  As I stood with my arms out to the side, and praying no one I knew happened to pass by, Auntie Jean and my mother proceeded to examine our available choices. Holding up each bra the two of them loudly exclaimed, “Isn’t this adorable?” “Look at the cute little pink bow on this one!” and, “This little one has a cute little pattern.”  It was becoming increasingly clear that this was a game to the two of them, a very fun game called Embarrass My Daughter!

At this point, I was beginning to regret I had even mentioned bras, much less purchasing them. I began to truly lament this very ladylike endeavor when Auntie Jean and my mother insisted that we not only try our favorite bras on, but also model them to see how they fit and how they made our molehills look beneath our shirts. Usually very particular about my clothing, I ceased to care. I remember grabbing three or four bras amongst the continuing hilarity of my mother and Auntie Jean, quickly trying them, subjecting myself to the commentary and critique of the adult ladies, and prepping for a quick exit.

My embarrassment during this event was very real! However, as I sit here recounting that day, I cannot help but also remember the joy, amusement, and love present. It is a day that Valerie and I talked and laughed about for years. A day my mother and I still recount. A day, that Auntie Jean, if she were still here today, would retell in full detail with eyes full of mischievous amusement. It is a day that is forever branded in my memory, not only because it was a milestone in my adolescence, but also because it was a day spent with the woman who taught me how to laugh despite my embarrassment! A day spent with the woman who had discovered the true meaning of mirth. A day spent with Auntie Jean.

Cover Letters: The Bane of My Existence

I once again find myself in need of a cover letter. I once again find myself stalling the application process because of the required cover letter. I despise writing cover letters. Cover letters, simply put, are the bane of my existence.

I have heard from friends, acquaintances, and strangers about "form" cover letters. A cover letter that has been used multiple times for multiple job applications...change the receiver's name, click, print, attach to resume and VOILA, a completed application. Curiously, I have never been able to create one of these convenient masterpieces. I am unsure whether this is due to the varying institutions to which I have applied, the varying jobs, or my own inherent need to be creative and create the best "first impression" possible. Most likely it is a combination of the three. Regardless, I find myself in the possession of numerous cover letters, all seemingly inappropriate for the current job to which I am applying. Once again, I find myself thinking, and thinking, and thinking, and thinking about the direction I want this next letter to take, the impression I want to make, the skills and qualities I possess that make me a perfect candidate for this job...thinking in a constant circle, no finish line in site.

Cover letters are, in part, difficult for me to write because I am not good at tooting my own horn in a serious manner. I can easily joke with you about my genius, wit, and skill...however, all I am truly doing is joking. Cover letters, take a certain amount of conceit, or appearance of conceit. They require the writer to believe or be able to convince the recipient, that they are truly the best candidate for the job, the most qualified, the most invested in the job and the institution. I rarely believe any of these things nor am I skilled in the art of deceit, making it difficult for me to write about myself and my skills in an inflated manner. If there is one thing this life has taught me it is humility. Humility is, in life, a virtue. In business and education, it is a huge flaw! Businesses and educational institutes survive and financially thrive because they convince their employees that they are special. Delude them into thinking they are irreplaceable. What really is an interview but an assessment of how easily that possible employee will buy into the philosophy of the institution? How willing that possible employee will be to focus their time, energy, and effort on the job, and the politics of the job? How desperate that individual is to feel a part of something larger than themselves, something unique and meaningful? Fortunately, or in this case, unfortunately, I have no delusions about my place in the business world! I am a number. Easily hired, easily fired. Easily replaceable. This does not mean I am not passionate about what I do. That I feel like I make no difference. I definitely believe in my importance to individuals, but not to larger institutions. I am passionate about what I do, but passionate because I believe in the power of knowledge...the self-growth and discovery it brings. The walls of hate, poverty, and prejudice that knowledge can destroy. The beauty it unearths. I am passionate because I believe knowledge improves people, and it is the collection of those people that bring positive change to the world. It is this passion that usually comes out in my cover letters. Unfortunately, I know that neither businesses, nor educational institutions (hard to believe, I know), are interested in an individuals passionate ideologies. They want commitment and sacrifice to their ideologies, ideologies that more often than not are in direct conflict with my own, making it difficult for me to commit to cover letters of any kind.

The frustrations I feel writing cover letters and sending out resumes is only exacerbated by the lack of response I usually receive. I respect those businesses that take the time to at least send a postcard confirming the receipt of my resume and cover letter. Those businesses at least make the pretense of valuing any possible employees. Unfortunately, those businesses are now rare. More often than not I receive no reply. The cover letter I have so painstakingly crafted enters into the those mysterious black holes, otherwise known as the garbage cans or filing cabinets of executive assistants and human relations officers. Those institutions so bent on having loyalty, commitment, and effort from their employees can hardly take the time to show their candidates the same respect.

Thus, I sit here. Thinking, thinking, thinking, and thinking about the next cover letter I must compose, hoping it can resist the gravitational pull of those pesky black holes.