Body Just Quit

I haven’t been playing much on Pinterest since before the SOL Challenge. In fact, I haven't posted on my blog much more than once per week since the challenge. I’ve been more focused on getting a job. I am glad to say that last Friday, I found out that I have a position, a new position within my district. I was doing some testing with a student when I heard a tap, tap, tapping at my door. One of my principals and another administrator, both of whom I have deep respect for, entered the room with news on their faces. I was told I had a coaching position but that I would be moving to another building. One of the administrators continued to talk but I really didn’t hear. I was stunned. Overwhelmed. Another move. Put on your game face. Don’t cry. I felt clammy. After they left, I sat in my chair and stared at the floor, the table, the wall, then back to the door. No tears yet. Then I moved to my desk and continued to tinker with a smart board lesson I had started working on earlier in the morning. I knew that the pair of administrators was in the process of telling one of my teaching partners across the hall that she also got one of the new coaching positions and she would also be moving.

By the end of the day, the clammy feeling had turned to chills. My sinuses were draining and the familiar sore throat was starting. I could tell my ears were filling with fluid. By Saturday, I figured I would have a full blown sinus infection. And I did. When the nurse at the Urgent Care took my temp it was 101 degrees. No wonder I felt shivery on Friday. The diagnosis was a double ear infection and sinus infection. I left with a Z-pac and headed to Walgreens for more Motrin and decongestant. I just wanted to sleep. My lids begged to close to shield my eyes from the sunshine. And that was that. My body refused to be pushed any further. I had to go to bed. The laundry and kitchen floor would have to wait. My teenage son would have to feed himself and my husband would have to go to Kroger’s and empty the litter boxes.

So what does all of this have to do with Pinterest? The thing about sinus infections is that they make me so tired but I can’t sleep because breathing is a challenge. Pinterest is fairly mindless. I can repin things that strike me and “like” the items that pique my interest but I want to look at more closely prior to pinning. Right now, mindless pinning is a useful distraction.

Still Feeling Seasick

I finally had my interview last Friday. I interviewed for one of the new coaching positions that was created for the upcoming school year in my district. My previous position as a literacy coach was eliminated. I was very nervous, almost physically ill. Throughout the weekend that followed the interview, I hammered myself about what I should have said as well as all the dorky stuff that came out of my mouth.  I was one of a boat load, thirty-ish I think, of candidates that rotated through three interview stations. We had 15 minutes to impress each group before moving to the next. Even though I knew most of the interviewers, I still felt very exposed and vulnerable and nauseous. I probably won’t know if I got the position for another 2 or 3 weeks. 

Come on Fog!

“Hey, Mom.”

“Yeah.”

“Look outside,” said my smiling son.

It was after 10:00 pm and we had just finished watching Ohio University make it into the sweet sixteen. He should have been in bed earlier and I should have been in bed too but Sunday evening seemed to bring a last minute to do list. When I looked outside, I saw it. Fog. I started smiling too. This could be our last chance for a school delay in a year without one missed day or delay due to our unusually mild winter season.

“Wear your pajama pants backwards and put a spoon under your pillow,” I told my 15-year-old jokingly.

“You don't think I'll do it, do you?"

With that, he bounded down the stairs. I could hear the silverware draw open. He fetched two spoons from the tray and back up the stairs he came, taking two at a time. He appeared in my office doorway, a spoon in each hand and his plaid pajama pants on backwards. He looked at me earnestly and handed me a spoon. And yes, I did put it under my pillow. 

Update 5:15 Monday morning: It worked!

A Piece of Her Wrapped Around My Wrist

This post was inspired by Tara’s post from A Teaching Life about a lost earring.

I adored my Grandma Marion. I think about her every day. She sewed all of her own clothes and every outfit in her closet had coordinating costume jewelry and shoes, mostly high heels.  I remember reveling in her jewelry drawer. Strings of beads with matching earrings and bracelets organized in baggies and sorted by color in tiny boxes and plastic trays. I don’t recall her wearing a lot of rings but she always seemed to have a bracelet on. When I was little, if I got too restless at church or in a public place, she would hand me her bracelet to wear as I looked at my books or paper dolls. 

I love wearing this bracelet. It feels
like a hug from my grandma. :)

Waiting Room

I spent a couple hours at the local Urgent Care on Saturday morning. I didn’t make it there until well after 9:00 and the small waiting room was packed: a young couple with a baby, a toddler, and a little boy no older than 5, an elderly couple, a woman in her twenties holding a small waste basket under her chin, a man in his thirties, and an older man who looked to be around 50 or 60. As I waited my turn, a woman wearing sweats, flip flops, and an over-sized man’s coat came in the door, signed the register and sat in one of the only remaining seats in the waiting room.  In my sinus infected stupor, I stared at a TV hung high on the wall. The lady on the weather channel was describing the devastating damage from the tornadoes that had screamed through Indiana the night before.

“Sheila,” the receptionist called. The woman in sweats went up to the front window.

“We can’t accept your insurance so if you want to see a doctor, it will cost sixty dollars.”

 The woman sighed in defeat and turned and left the doctor’s office. Just then, the young woman with the wastebasket began throwing up.

A nurse opened the door that led to the examining rooms.

“Diana,” she called.

My diagnosis was a double ear infection and a sinus infection. The Urgent Care had an in-house pharmacy which saved me a trip to CVS. I walked out of the Urgent Care with my antibiotics feeling both relieved and guilty. On the way home I kept thinking about the woman in sweats. I wondered how sick she was. I wondered if she would return with $60.00 or if she ended up not going to a doctor at all. 

Mentor Sentence Monday: The Incredible Journey

Amazon Link

When I was in 5th grade, one of my favorite books was The Incredible Journey by Sheila Burnford. I remember wanting to read the book because one the characters was a Siamese cat. Burnford's descriptions of the characters are filled with lengthy sentences with multiple commas and semi-colons. Admittedly, I've never felt very confident about teaching young writers to use semi-colons but with Burnford's words as a model, it seems a little easier. Her detailed descriptions of the animal characters are great snippets for teaching snapshots.

The following sentences are from Burnford's The Incredible Journey, page 4:

On the floor, his scarred, bony head resting on one of the man's feet, lay an old white English bull terrier. His slanted almond-shaped eyes, sunk deep within their pinkish rims, were closed; one large triangular ear caught the firelight, flushing the inside a delicate pink, so that it appeared almost translucent.

I generated the following sentences using Burnford's words as a model:

On the bed, his plump, wide head resting on one of the woman's feet, lay an orange domestic short hair. His yellow-green eyes, half-closed within their furry rims, were glowing; one triangular ear caught the sunlight, making the hairs inside glisten.

One Little Word Wednesday: Thread

My jar of  loose ends and
tangled threads.

It seems like each Wednesday I start the same way. I don’t know what I’m going to write about. As usual, I look over at my jar of thread that I thought was so clever in January.  I just stare at it.  I pick it up and turn it around and around. It has started to look rather untidy inside my jar. A few days ago, my teenage son came into my office, flopped on the day bed, and then took to messing with my jar. He picked it up, unscrewed the lid, and started disturbing and fiddling with the contents. By the time he left my office, my thread jar was in complete disarray. I plunked the spools back into the jar, screwed on the lid, and forgot about it. That is until today. Wednesday. As I look at my jar, I feel like the loose threads of my last several days need to be untangled, rewound, and secured. 

Not Funny Until Later

Sam started dancing when
she was three.

 My husband and I planned to travel to Bowling Green on Saturday to see our daughter, Sam, perform in a dance concert. During the day, we got about two inches of blowing snow. He decided we should drive my car to the performance. I warned my husband not to open the driver’s side door because it wouldn't shut if it got too cold out. He looked at me like I was nuts misinformed. I had actually told him about the door several weeks ago but since we hadn’t had much icy weather, it hadn’t been a problem. By the time we arrived in BG, the wind chill had dipped into the teens. Walking through the parking lot and up the stairs of Kobacker Hall brought back memories of trudging across that flat open campus, in the whipping wind, cutting through buildings along the way to warm up.  After the concert, we planned to take my daughter and her friend back to the dorm. I told the girls that they had to climb in through the passenger side back door because there was something wrong with the other door. My husband decided he should warm up the car and bring it closer to the entrance so the girls could hop in the back.

While waiting for the car, I enjoyed listening to my daughter chatter with the other dancers. My husband texted that the car was ready and we headed out. And there he stood, in the blowing snow, slamming the back door over and over, trying to get it to close. He looked at me, mouth agape. I looked at him and shook my head. I told Sam to try to hold the door shut from the inside as we drove back to the dorm. The girls thought the whole situation was wildly comical. I did not. After dropping Sam off, we found a car wash, warmed up the door, and got the darn thing shut. About halfway home, it all seemed a lot funnier.

She Still Needs Me

Sam's bedside table

When we picked Sam up at college before Christmas, after she had finished her last exam, she was sick with tonsillitis. She had been to the health clinic on campus a few days before with 103 degree temperature. They prescribed Amoxil, the same medicine she had taken in liquid form for her ear infections as a preschooler. Once at home, Sam complained about swallowing the fat pills and how much they hurt going down. The pills were pretty big. When I peered down my daughter’s throat with the flashlight, her tonsils looked like pieces of cauliflower, all inflamed and purulent. Her right and left tonsils met in the middle, touching her uvula. When she talked, her voice had the same hypo-nasal quality she used to have when she got strep back in middle school. When Sam was in sixth grade, she had a few months where she got strep over and over. I could always hear it in her voice before the sore throat would even start. I’d take her to the doctor, they would run the strep test, and it would come out negative. Within two days, her fever would spike to 102 or 103 and back to the doctor we would go. She couldn’t wouldn’t swallow pills so we had to get the pink liquid.

Sam spent the better part of winter break in bed sleeping, sipping tea, and eating pudding. She seemed to get better for a while and then after Christmas, her symptoms returned. Off we went to the urgent care on a Saturday night and this time she got a Z-pack. More days in bed, sleeping, texting her friends, and sipping 7-Up with a straw. The nice thing about her being sick was that I didn’t have to worry about where she was. She didn’t leave her crap all over the house. She didn’t demand to use the car to go shopping in Toledo or visit friends in Ann Arbor. She even spent New Year’s Eve at home sitting on the couch watching Dick Clark. This may sound weird but it was one of the pleasantest breaks I’ve spent with my daughter in recent memory. It felt good to take care of her. And she didn't mind me doing it. 

Summer Regrets

My son finished off Grandma Jo's
jam in less than two days!

A few weeks ago, my step-mom gave me the loveliest jar of homemade golden plum jam. The jam had a wonderful tart-sweet flavor; tart from the amber skins of the plums and sweet from the flesh. I had barely made it in the door with my prize when my 14-year-old son’s food radar instantly activated and he wanted to know what was in the jar. After one taste, he immediately got out the bread. He spread a slice generously with the jam, folded it in half, and began stuffing it in his mouth.

“Mmmmmm, this stuff is amazing,” he purred.

Then he took out the peanut butter and made sandwiches with the jam. After a sandwich or two, he toasted some bread and slathered the jam on top of melted butter. He said the flavor reminded him a little of apricot preserves only sweeter and smoother. I had never realized my son was such a jelly connoisseur. My step-mom would have thoroughly enjoyed watching him devour her yummy gift. Then came the inevitable question:

“How did Grandma Jo make this?”

I chuckled as I retold the story of how a few days ago, Grandma and Grandpa had gone to Erie Orchards and Grandpa made Grandma Jo climb up a ladder to pick the best plums. 

 "Can you believe he made her climb up a ladder, for Pete's sake?"

“Yeah, but how did she actually make it?”

Although I wasn’t exactly sure how she had made it, I could pretty much guess. I had watched both my mom and step-mom can hundreds of jars of tomatoes, pickles, and jelly. As a kid, it was a familiar part of my summer. I told my son about sterilizing the jars and the lids and the big pot and the rack for the jars. I told him about preparing the fruit and adding sugar and Sure-Jell.  I talked about how sometimes the lids popped as they sealed. My son was genuinely fascinated with the process.

“How come you don’t make jam and pickles and stuff?”

I didn’t answer him right away. I just looked at him and said that canning takes a lot of time and I didn't have all the canning equipment. As I explained this to him I began to feel guilty. Knowing my son, he would have enjoyed the process of making jam as much as he loved eating it. Maybe next summer.

What Music Does

My mother’s piano lived in the front room of our house on Parker Street. On most school days, I could hear Mom playing and singing as I walked up the long sidewalk that led to our front door. I would try to guess the song as I got closer. Was it Rhapsody in Blue or An American in Paris? Sometimes I sat on the front porch glider and just listened until she stopped. Other times I slipped in through the screen door silently, and sat on the floor nearby. Watching my mother get lost in her music was wonderful, even stirring. As a young child, I sensed her passion for music. Playing gave her shelter. It had been a large part of her identity growing up, long before she got married and became a mom. I adored hearing her play and grew to enjoy the music she loved. One would think that I would have been motivated to learn to play the piano. How silly of me to have wasted such an opportunity. But even though I never played an instrument or sang, my mother’s passion, ignited by her own parents, spread from me to my daughter.

<> <>

Grandmother and grandaughter
 bound together through music.

Some of my daughter's books
for fall semester.



Football Frenzy

Mitch's helmet

“Am I taller? Measure me.”

“Hmmm, looks like you’ve grown at least 2 ½ inches since last summer.”

“So how tall am I?”

“Looks like 6 foot and ¾ inches.”

And so goes my conversations with my son since mid-July. His first football game as a freshman is August 25^th. When he isn’t fretting about his height, he wants me to admire his growing biceps.

“Mom, check these out. I’m a beast!”

I’ll admit it. I love football. As long as no one gets hurt. My brother, John, played when he was in high school. In fact, his team went to the state championships when he was a senior. Football fever whipped our small town into a frenzy. By all accounts, my brother’s small rag-tag team should not have done well. But they just kept winning. School was let out early the day of the big game so hometown fans could make the trip to Massillon, Ohio. I think it snowed. They lost.

Program from John's playoff
game

I also remember that my brother got injured a lot. He actually had several concussions while in high school. I recall sitting in the stands and seeing John stretched out, lying on his back, arms to his sides, like he had decided to take a nap in the middle of the field. It happened more than once.

“Mom, did you see where Maddox got drafted by the Lions. And the Howey kid got drafted by the Seahawks. That is crazy! Two kids from Monroe. Where did Maddox go to college?”

“Maddox went to Central Michigan and Howey went to Eastern Michigan.”

My brother the football star!

I love football but it also scares me to death.

A-tisket A-tasket

I have 3 older siblings. I’m eight years younger than the oldest sister, seven years younger than the next sister, and six years younger than my brother. When I was in second grade, they were all teenagers. I had to go to bed early, while they stayed up late. As I tried to fall asleep, I could hear my sisters talking on the extension phone in the hallway, just outside the door of my bedroom. Sometimes I could hear one of my sisters finishing up her daily flute practice. The drawers in the bathroom opened and closed. Bedroom doors also opened and closed and periodically slammed. At times, the voices and laughter were hushed. Other times, the voices were more high-pitched and whiny when they accused each other of something.

None of the noise really bothered me. It was familiar. And . . . I used to sing myself to sleep. Actually, I rolled my head back-and-forth, side-to-side, on my pillow, singing “A-tisket a-tasket, a green and yellow basket.” Only I changed the words to “I love my Mommy, I love my Daddy.” On more difficult days, my voice got louder and the words changed to “I hate my Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, I hate my Mommy.”  All that vigorous singing and head-rolling put me to sleep. On most mornings, I awoke with my hair tangled in a significant rat’s nest in the back of my head. Mom started yanking the brush through my hair as I ate my Cheerios. She knew I didn’t hate her. In fact, if I weren’t singing so loudly, I probably could have heard my family laughing. They always knew how my day had been depending on the name I inserted into my nightly song.  Nowadays, a kid rhythmically rolling their head at night singing about hating their mother might be seen as a symptom of ADHD or something else requiring medication. I suppose it is possible. I think mostly I was just trying to drown out the noise and rock myself to sleep.

Actual Books

“What have you been doing all day?”

“Reading.  In fact, I just finished Little Women. I never read it and thought that I should.”

“Little Women! You mean it was an actual book before it was a musical?”

I looked at my daughter with a wide smile. I didn’t smirk or make her feel silly that she didn’t know that Little Women was an actual book. How would she know? She never saw me reading it before now. The book wasn’t on a bookshelf at home and she never read it in school. With genuine interest, she picked up the book and flipped through the pages.

“So, did you decide to read this because I’m in the musical?”

“Uh, huh. I’m interested to see what parts they include in the musical. Remember how different Wicked was from the actual book?

“Wow, this is thick. Show me the part about Meg.”

“Do you want to read about Meg after she got married?”

“Yeah, put a sticky note on it and I’ll read it later. I felt kinda bad when I didn’t get Jo but I really like Meg. I think I would be a better Meg anyway.  She’s older and more like motherly.”

“And pretty,” I added.

“Moooooom, come on.”

“I’m allowed to say that, I’m your mom.”

"What is that book? Are you reading that next?"

"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Remember Tom Sawyer? Same author."

"Yeah, wasn’t Tom Sawyer the musical Mitch was in when he was like in 3^rd grade? Isn’t it weird how so many musicals start out as old books?"

My wide smile returned and I nodded my head in agreement.

The "actual" book and one of Meg's songs from the musical.

Lilacs

My miniature lilacs started out small but now are becoming a
thick hedge.

I have always loved lilacs. When I was little, I think we had lilac bushes that lined the side of our front yard. If I remember right, they were next to the irises and the mulberry tree. My lilac bushes are much smaller. In fact, they are miniature lilacs but they smell just the same. The windows have been open a lot lately and the lilacs are almost in full bloom. Their faintly sugary smell floats on the breeze blowing my living room curtains.

When Light, Water, and Air Meet

As I was quickly snapping pictures in the sprinkling rain, I saw several of my neighbors stepping out on their front porches to look for the rainbow. The two little girls that live kitty-corner from me were in their storm soaked yard in bare feet.

"Mommy, come look at the rainbow! Mommy!!!!

From inside my house, I could hear my teenagers talking about how weird I was for taking pictures of a rainbow. My daughter clunked out on the porch, letting the screen door bang behind her.

"What is the big deal Mom, it is just a rainbow. Don't tell me you're going to post that on your blog."

I kept snapping and she kept looking. I sat on the porch and watched the rainbow fade. I smiled to myself knowing that I had grabbed a moment and enjoyed it because I knew it wouldn't last very long. I need to do that more often.

May 23, 2011. The first rainbow I've seen since last summer. Can you see the faint
second rainbow above it? The black dot is a bird.

First Dance

Me and Mitch, May 13, 2011

It is amazing how good teenage boys clean up. He didn't want to wear his boring khaki pants and button down shirt from his confirmation to his first dance. So, we bought a fancy shirt and tie and new black pants. Mitch paid half. He borrowed shoes from my husband. No date, thank goodness. I'm not ready for that yet. He's only 14 for Pete's sake. Some kids had official dates but most of them went in groups. After gathering at a friend's house for pictures, it was time to head over to the school for the big event. On the way, Mitch begged me to let him go to Applebee's with his buddies after the dance. How could I say no? He was actually being quite charming and funny and sweet and wasn't acting completely embarrassed by my very presence. Was this my kid?

A Little Night Music

On Saturday, my husband and I spent the evening watching our daughter, Sam, perform in her college's production of A Little Night Music. The voices were amazing. The pit orchestra was excellent. All in all, a very high quality production. My daughter was an extra, barely noticeable. She was also in charge of moving one of the set panels throughout the show. The few weeks before the opening night, I got several stressed out phone calls, which surprised me. My daughter was worried about keeping up with her class work while she spent countless hours every night at the theater. I never once reminded her that it was her choice to become a musical theater major. I just listened and told her to push herself as much as she could.

After the show, we waited for Sam. I could tell she was glad we made the trip to see her, even though she was just a moving set panel. She was exhausted, getting a cold, frustrated. My husband and I told her we thought the show was very good and she agreed. When we got to her dorm, we hauled up a box of food we brought her, handed her money, then hugged her good-bye.

On the ride home, I thought about how proud I was that Sam had worked so hard to just be a moving set panel. Paying dues was building her character and her determination.

A Slice of a Teacher's Life in Michigan

This is what I woke up to on Wednesday morning. I received a letter from the Michigan Education Association the day before stating that local unions are being asked to take a strike vote before April 14th.

After I got to school, I learned that next month, all teachers in my district will be given a pink slip.

I just want to do my job.

Me and Dad on the Gracie Mae

I grew up afraid of my dad. He never hit me. I never saw him hit my siblings. I only heard the stories. Once he broke his own hand when he slammed it down on the desk by the kitchen. I saw him do it. He knew I was afraid of him and it bothered him when I pulled away.


When I was ten, my dad bought a pontoon boat. He left it sit by the neighbor's garage all winter. Come spring, he began scraping, priming, and painting the pontoons. He yanked out the rotten benches and scrubbed the deck.  By the time he was done, the boat was bright and clean and didn't smell like dead fish. My mom and sisters wanted nothing to do with the boat. My brother liked the boat but complained that the motor wasn't powerful enough to pull a water skier. I loved the boat. My dad and I named her the Gracie Mae. Even before school was out, on warm evenings, Dad and I would take the short drive to Grand Rapids Marina on the Maumee River, where Gracie was docked. By the time we made it half-way up the river, the coals in the hibachi were white-hot. When we got near the sandbar, Dad dropped the anchor. I finished grilling our onion burgers and we ate. Sometimes he would throw in a line, and me, I was content to dangle my toes in the muddy river. There was nothing scary about my dad when it was just us on the Gracie Mae.