An Ugly Duckling or A Mother’s Love

            It did not dawn on me until I was sixteen or seventeen years old that I was, at thirteen, extremely funny looking. When I approached my mother with this realization, she audibly gasped, and very defensively declared, “No you were not, you were, and always have been pretty…and smart, too!” I should have expected this response from my mother. I had grown up hearing, “You are pretty…and smart, too.”  By the time I was sixteen, the saying had become somewhat of a joke between my parents and I. Whenever I suffered from those frequent bouts of teenage anguish over my physical appearance, I could count on my parents to assure me of my stunning beauty, while simultaneously reminding me that my intelligence was equally important to, if not more important than, my physical appearance.

            On any given day, I would have smiled, nodded, and accepted my mother’s compliment without argument, only half believing her statement. However, on this day, I was unwilling to accept the blind delusion my mother had been living with for years. Pulling my sixth grade school picture from a photo box labeled This Is Your Life Alyssa Jill, I presented my mother with the damaging evidence.

There I sat, staring directly into the camera with a shy, or possibly forced, smile upon my face. My teeth were horribly crooked. Despite the fact that I had already suffered through one set of braces in an attempt to make room for my “big girl” teeth, the orthodontist simply could not change the size of my bone structure, resulting in too many teeth in too small of a space. I donned a chunky turquoise turtleneck, that could have held my head in place had it not been attached to my body, the collar was that thick and restrictive. My obsession with Madonna was apparent from my crimped hair to my blue eyeliner. Styles, that over the course of the summer, I had worked hard to perfect.  I spent every moment indoors in front of the bathroom mirror with my mother’s array of eye shadows, liners, and lipstick, applying them with care as I waited for my curling iron and crimper to reach the perfect temperature. After dousing my hair in Aqua Net, I listened with glee as it sizzled on contact with the crimper. All moisture now sucked from my tresses, and the perfect kink achieved, I once again applied pressure to the Aqua Net sprayer, and delighted in the stiff perfection of my style.

            Holding the picture inches from her nose, I declared, “Mom, how can you say I was pretty? Look at my crimped hair and blue eye liner!”

My mother smiled and replied, “That was the style!”

Remembering that I had only recently convinced my mother to forgo her Farrah Fawcett feathers, I realized that I was going to have to try another tactic. My mother had entered into the fashion and beauty trends of the nineteen seventies only to emerge from them in the nineties.

 Looking closely at the picture, it soon struck me that though the crimped hair and blue eyeliner accentuated my adolescent ugliness, they were not the cause of it. My ugliness was a result of something much less easy to identify. Something subtle, yet vital. Proportion. My face, my facial features to be exact, was out of proportion. My nose, eyes, and particularly my lips, were those of an adult (an adult with very large defined features), yet my face was still that of a child. My cheeks were still subtle and soft, without definition. My nose against this subtleness appeared large, and extraordinarily bony. My eyebrows were unplucked and appeared to crawl across my forehead in caterpillar fashion. My eyes also bore the dark bags of a woman, not a girl, with too little sleep and too much stress.

 However, nothing was more prominent than my lips. Today women go to extraordinary measures to achieve such full, plump lips. Mine were naturally luscious, and, at the time, excruciatingly embarrassing. They were the first feature my peers noticed, the first feature my peers ridiculed. Adults would often call them “stunning” and “incredibly attractive”, but these comments, just like my mother’s statement that I was pretty…and smart, too, were lost. At thirteen, what did adults know? It was not until Julia Roberts rose to fame, and I had “grown into” my lips that they, and I, began to receive compliments from my peers; ironically, around the same time I began arguing with my mother regarding my thirteen-year-old ugliness.

I pointed these facts out to my mother with little success. She was determined to believe that I was as pretty at thirteen as I was at sixteen. I sat staring at my thirteen-year-old self, teeth elbowing each other out of the way, lips staging a coup against my other features, and nose rising like a newly formed mountain. I had presented my evidence and lost. I had no other choice but to close my case, and accept that in my mother’s eyes I was pretty at thirteen…and smart, too.

Years later, my mother began scrapbooking our lives. I entered her house one day to bits and pieces of This Is Your Life Alyssa Jill scattered across her scrapbooking desk. Holding my sixth grade picture in her hand, my mother looked up from her desk and with apologetic eyes declared, “So, I have been looking at these pictures of you in junior high. You were right, you were kind of funny looking.”

I could not resist smiling, laughing, and in good humor declaring, “I told you so!”

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.