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…