Story Time

We found out the other day that Gracie's wayward kitty friend Figaro met his demise, on our street no less. 

Never one to favor cats, I was startled by the depth of sadness I felt, both over Figaro's death AND especially how we would address this with our beautiful, vibrant 3-year old who very nearly trembles with life and energy. Which is why, when she asked about Figaro the next night, I paused to ponder the best way to respond. Brian had no such qualms: "He died. He's gone."

While my response was essentially a more traumatized version of this,

Grace responded much more calmly.

She quickly grasped that she won't see the kitty again, that he's gone. And she's seemingly moved on quite well, despite (or maybe because of) Brian's blunt declaration. I took this interaction and tried to parlay it into something useful -- I decided to bring this conversation into the classroom.

See, my students and I have been talking about allegory in The Old Man and the Sea and why people don't always say exactly what they mean. So I told a total of about 80 students about my toddler, her long-gone feline friend, and my husband's verbal diarrhea to illustrate the contradictory point: here's what it sounds like to say exactly what you mean. And do you know how those adolescents responded? Listening to my story in absolute silence, they responded with laughter, with sympathy, and with a maturity beyond their years. (They might also have requested that I bring Brian in for show-and-tell. 😉) 

All of this convinced me of one thing: we LIVE for stories. Stories of life, stories of death, and everything in between. Because when we start share our stories, we start sharing ourselves. And there is nothing more important than sharing who we are.

Star Light, Star Bright

I've always felt news reports deeply, whether they're bound to pop culture, politics, or anything in between. The death of Ray Bradbury, George W. Bush's declaration of war in Iraq, Kate Middleton's pregnancies, so many others...I respond on a human, visceral level, something bound to my very being. I just take a gut-punch (positive AND negative) response to news of the miraculous, everyday experiences of the world. 

So it was no surprise then, that news of David Bowie's death sent me on an interlude of sadness. It did, however, make me happy beyond belief that I was able to incorporate him into my daily lessons, in an authentic and natural way.

A lesson on allegory, on literary interpretation: there's really no better way to express the meaning of academic understanding. So it was strange for me to consider that my responses were beyond the academic. For instance, I was awake at 3AM looking for Grace's beloved friend, StarPup.

I've no reason for the name she gave this simple plastic toy: StarPup. There's nothing on him to suggest the name, nor is there any outside influence on her (David Bowie has never been a standby in our house), but Grace chose this morning, at approximately the announced time of David Bowie's death, to ask me to help her find her StarPup. Coincidence?! Yeah...probably. 

But the optimist, the dreamer, the storyteller in me can't help but wonder...maybe? Maybe Grace felt a ripple effect in the universe. Maybe something greater than us allowed us to be heroes, just for one day (and God, isn't that the perpetual role of a parent?!). Maybe my greatest hope is true: stories, art, music...they all transcend our understanding. And man, what a relief that is, to know that something more than us carries on. 

Yes. Stories, thoughts, ideas...they're so worthwhile. 

Fly high, StarMan. Thank you for your beauty.

Sick & Tired of Being, Well...You Know

For this past five-day work week, I took two sick days, spent one day at a district conference, and spent two days in the classroom just treading water. My days in the classroom were met with multiple variations of, "You sound/look awful." Well, thank you, I hadn't been aware. 😉 

And after the days of rest and thorough OTC medication, d'you know how I felt? Guilty. I felt guilty. Who am I to take sick days or go to conferences or have a full-period writing assignment when I could be doing so much more? 

I have a history of getting bronchitis and/or pneumonia each winter, along with last year's spectacular hospital visit with asthmatic bronchitis, coinciding with a rapid heartbeat resulting in a delayed ER discharge...all charming ailments, of course. These are a few of the treatments I use.

Authentic, verified health issues...and I feel guilty. Why? My guess is basic. As a female, as a mom, as a teacher, I'm expected to take care of people, as long as those people don't include me. I'm not alone in this feeling, yet I've no solutions for it. Don't get me wrong; I didn't spend my days in abject misery. I slept (A LOT), I read & watched TV shows (hello, Making a Murderer!), and I lounged around with my favorite beautiful blondes. 

And then, after a night of hacking & wheezing & slurping down my inhaler, do you know what I was doing before 7:30 this morning? Cleaning the house and heading into work to make sure I was prepared for Monday after an unexpectedly absent week....all while taking puffs on my inhaler and keeping track of the time to get cough syrup in an appropriate time frame. In the inimitable words of Ms. Betty White:

Yes, yes they do. I make no excuses or apologies right now. If there is a woman in your life -- or if you are that woman -- allow her the rest and solitude she needs. Why? Because if I'm even half the woman she is, we're putting every moment into making life easier, more fun, better for everyone around us. And sometimes all we need is a bit of time to focus on us...without the guilt. 

Kitchen Karma

I'm a lucky lady in many ways; just one of those ways involves my culinary incompatibility with Brian. See, I'm not a terribly picky eater, and he's very particular about his meals. Why is this a good thing? Well, I don't really like to cook...and he doesn't really like when I cook, either. This results in some awesome grilled meals and (more frequent than I care to admit) delivery. Win-win!

Brian's actual distaste for my kitchen capabilities (which, to be fair, aren't offensive...just not his tastes!) reached a head over the holiday break. Chatting on the phone while he was at work one day, his response to wishes for the evening meal? "Stay away from the stove, and don't have anything ready when I get home."

Humph! 😂 Too glad to kick back and pass the meal-prep to someone else, the cold weather put a damper on his preferred grilling sensibilities. Instead, he endeavored to tackle one of the primary tactics in the typical "women's" world: the oven. He started simply (ha!) with a frozen pizza:

Yes, I know how it looks. Yes, we have a name for it. No, I won't publish said name. See below for the most polite, appropriate response to his...creation.

Since then, he's braved the frosty night air to grill delicious steak, fish fillets, and marinated chicken. But then, he got cocky, if you ask me. Because tonight, well, tonight brought on another bout of Italian food in the oven. It started out well enough; as we were preparing to tuck Gracie into bed, though, I heard his legendary, "Uhhhh...", followed by, "You'll need to tuck her in by yourself." And I was going to, so help me I was -- without question! -- but suddenly, with my Christmas cold still rearing its ugly head, I needed a tissue. I ran to the kitchen to grab one only to see:

He did manage to salvage enough for lunch for tomorrow...kind of...

He even took care of clean-up...kind of...

Italian food: 2. Brian: 0. And I consider myself a winner, too: I didn't have to cook, I didn't have to clean, and I didn't have to pay for the (mercifully!!!) delivered pizza. On top of that, I got the sweet taste of playful revenge when I was able to tell him: "Stay away from the stove." Just delicious! 😜

Free Reading, Free Thinking

I read an article over the weekend about Sherman Alexie's award-winning literary novel The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian being banned in Wisconsin schools. The article (which, to be fair, is more than a year old but somehow just recently reached my eyes) details a school board banning the book, students petitioning and receiving copies from a book seller, and angry parents calling the police to report inappropriate book distribution.

All because...students wanted to read an evocative, contemporary book.

I don't mean to suggest that all students should read all books, nor do I think that anyone other than students and parents combined can best decide suitable reading material for each person. 

What I am suggesting is that we straighten out our priorities involving education and schools. Last year, school budgets and teacher pensions continued to be threatened, cut, or put on hold; standardized test ideas bounced around the government as politicians tried to decide the best way to help our students with "high-stakes testing" (ahem...get rid of it); and elective programs were reduced or cut to pave the way for more test-oriented material.

Books and ideas can be weapons, and they can be dangerous. We cannot, unfortunately, remove all of the dangers from our world. We can, however, do something for our kids: we can teach them how to think...if only we let them.

 

From the Mouths of Babes

I attempted to trim Gracie's bangs tonight. It's about the 10th time I've done so, and I'm no better now (probably worse, to be honest) than I was the first time. Poor girl.

The results are crooked and less-than ready for a fashion magazine. So it shocked me a bit when she ran to her bedroom mirror, took a thorough look at the hatchet-job I gave her, and she declared: "Beautiful!" 

See, Grace loves looking at herself. She thinks -- no, she knows -- she is gorgeous. And it's really a bit startling to see; as a woman in her 30s who works with teenage girls, it's not the norm for a female to look at herself and say, "Beautiful!" I wish that wasn't the case. I see so many smart, kind, thoughtful, and lovely young ladies, and I also see their self-doubt. Why, girls? Why do we do this to ourselves? Because it is an all-encompassing problem. 

Confession Time: I covered a "Creative Movement" class the other week (God help me, I did not become an English teacher because of my athletic prowess!), and a student came up to give me her name for attendance and said, "Wow, you are gorgeous!" 

*thunk* D'you know what my first, genuine thought was? Perhaps I should call to report a potential drug violation. Because, seriously...?!

I'm not gorgeous, not in any age-group, time-period, or trend. I'm just...ME. I'm the ME who snorts when she laughs, who takes a good year or two before I'm comfortable making casual (planned-out, scripted) water-cooler chat, who has no freakin' clue how my life got where it is or where it's going. 

Know what, though? Neither does my sweet Gracie. And she's okay with that...

...so it's high-time to take a cue from her and decide that: I'm okay with that. If ME is all I can be, well, isn't there anything else than the best, beautiful, only version of me out there? 

What makes us lose the infinite wisdom we have from the very beginning? Perhaps it's too much doubt, too much caution, too much outside input. Because, as an outsider looking in, we enter this world with the most important information: I. Am. Enough. And good Lord above, if there's nothing else I learn from my daughter and convince her to hold onto throughout her life, well, we've shared a pretty important message.  

Just in case you need to know: you ARE beautiful and you ARE enough. And you know what? I am, too.

Try, Try Again

My New Year's Eve & Day were both hot. As in, uncomfortably hot; like, bordering on full-fledged fever hot. 

Yep, I spent yesterday and today with a hacking cough, congested chest, and elevated temperature. I celebrated the ball dropping by rolling into my third hour of fitful sleep for the night. My stunning NYE footwear? 

I know, I know: I'm a wild woman. I wasn't surprised I got sick. My family's been passing whatever this is around for the last week, so I knew my turn was coming. The tea? Mine. The Vapo-Steam? Gracie's (at least she's on the road to recovery). Again: hot.

On top of ringing in the New Year with a potent glass of herbal tea, there are other less-than-stellar (and dramatically more significant) developments affecting the start of 2016. I have loved ones undergoing potentially major, involuntary career changes...not really cause for celebration, particularly when much is unknown. Then, when I checked in on social media this morning to see how the new year was treating friends, these were some of the choicest posts:

Really?!!? How is this possibly the right way to start a year? But then, like always, someone far wiser than I am was able to put things into perspective.

Ah, Neil Gaiman, how right you are. It doesn't matter how we start the new year; it matters that we get a new year. So for all of the mistakes and bumps and failures along the way, it means we'll have successes and peaks and victories on the other side. Put all together, we'll have experience, another chance -- 366 in total for 2016 (it is Leap Year!) to try to get it right. And if we don't? Well, there's always next year.