Five Things This Teacher Will Always Wonder 1/26/14

My own words this afternoon kind of surprised me.  "Several times a day, I wonder what it would be like to work among adults only.  But then I think if I didn't work with children, I would die a slow death."  Really?  Do I think that?  Definitely yes to the first half.  Wondering about those other jobs out there - you know, not teachers - I've been doing that since 1986. I even tried to look up how much a delivery truck driver makes one time, because they just get to drive, deliver, stop for lunch somewhere, then take the truck back to be loaded up and do it again the next day!

Is the grass greener outside the elementary playground?  I will probably never know.  I dream of moving into one of the those educational positions at a museum or something....but I don't actively pursue it.  I have to support myself and my girls, so taking a chance on finding a different-type job is too risky, in my mind.  So I am left to wonder about the outside world, like a confined princess in a tower. Well, maybe like a middle-aged woman that can't escape the workhouse...I prefer the princess, though. Here are five things I will always wonder:

1. What's it like to be able to get up and go to the restroom when you need to at work?  Elementary teachers can't just walk out of the room.  We have to get someone else to watch, oversee, protect, make sure hawks don't scoop up...the children.  Although I am having a laugh here, it's actually quite necessary.  We can have a fellow teacher spell us for a potty break - but our best bet is to learn the schedule and never over-Starbuck ourselves, even on tired mornings!

2.  Who are these people that are at restaurants for lunch every day?  Every great now and then, the schedule gives us a lucky break and we get to venture out - to Jason's Deli, Panera, the local Tex-Mex, a good Chinese buffet - about four times a school year, if you're counting.  When teachers walk in, usually group of women with school t-shirts or their badges flipping at their collar, we can hear the rest of the population think "Oh great, the teachers are out today..."  Who are those people?  I want to walk up to each and every one of them and ask "What is your job?  Do you get to eat out every day?  How much do you make?  How much vacation time do you get?"  But I don't.  Evidently those types of questions are frowned upon from strangers.

3. How does it feel to go through an entire work day with nobody hugging you? Or poking your stomach to tell you something?  Or petting your toes?  Unless you work in a very unusual place, I have got to assume that you "other job" people out there do not get treated as if you are some one's substitute mommy - or stuffed animal!  By the way, in the winter, the toe-petter will rub my suede boots.  This is my third year to teach her, and it has lessened - I feel it's my job to let her know that you can't just pet any one's feet!

4.  If you start to not feel well in the middle of a day, do you just go home?  I know that not everyone can....but can you turn off your phone?  Change a meeting?  Put the e-mail on out-of-office for thirty minutes?  Can you run to Walgreen's on the corner to buy some medicine, then try to make it through the day? Don't get me wrong, we can take measures if things are bad enough, but if it's just a headache, or the start of sniffles, something mild?  We just carry on.  Maybe have an extra bottle of water or cup of tea.  Then  we ask a colleague to watch our kids when we have to run to the restroom.

5.  What's it like to shop locally without children yelling your name?  It is evidently SO COOL to see the teacher outside of elementary school.  And the parents are there, witnessing how we greet their precious little ones, and sometimes wondering 'Who the heck is that?'  So no matter what a long day it's been, how tired we are, we put on a smile, say hi to the precious darling, introduce ourselves to the parents...and then we have to remember why we came to the store in the first place!  If we are lucky, they are leaving, and we don't encounter them on every aisle we walk, to get an update on what groceries their mom just chose.

Actually, number 5 is the reason I went back to teaching happily after my five years off.  My five years off happened to take place in England (I know, cool, right?) from when my girls were two and three, until they were seven and eight.  It was a complete blessing to be home with them during that time.  About six months in, though, I found myself sitting at the kitchen table just sobbing my eyes out.  I analyzed it carefully.  Of course I missed my family.  Of course I missed my friends. Of course I missed the familiar area, stores, etc.  But what I really missed was people knowing me.  Nobody stopped me to talk in the drugstore.  Nobody kept me standing in the driveway chatting for an hour, so dinner was late.  I like to be known!  Granted, we were very new in England, and at the end of my five years I had all that and more.  But learning that about myself has kept me teaching.  Oh there are nine hundred kids in the school?  Bring 'em on! I only get to see them every other week?  That's okay, I'll make sure they know me and that they learn music. Because I am their teacher, for those five days a week, nine months a year, I belong to them and they belong to me.

Me, with some of the earliest huggy darlings - around 1988, when the wondering began!

Buying a Car, Church, and Peter Frampton 1/22/14

 I wrote about doing things alone back in August, when I bought my youngest, Maddy, her car.  I told about having to make big decisions alone and how difficult that is, but also how I think I have made the right decisions and been wise and smart and all that I expect myself to be, based on what Scott and I used to be together.  I bought Mallory a car in November, and did more research, was very prepared, and had Meiling go with me.  Safety in numbers, and she's a great negotiator.  Plus, she can always make me laugh when the stress starts attacking.  Now, it was my turn for a car.  I traded 'my' GMC in on Mallory's car.  I've been driving that little, eleven-year-old BMW for a few months now.  I also had a Jetta in the garage, since Mallory brought it home from Lubbock and took her new one back.  Unfortunately, the Jetta wouldn't start. I changed the battery, it still wouldn't start.  I had my mechanic (great guy, ask me if you need one..) come to the house to check it - he thought it was the fuel pump, and it had to be towed.  I was trying to wait for it to be fixed so I could purchase my new one and trade both in.....but the Jetta had other ideas.  Its computer is broken, so it had to be towed from my mechanic's to the VW dealership, where I will spend a load of money on the computer, only to turn around and sell it later.  That is why none of the new cars are VWs.

I decided I wanted a Mitsubishi Outlander for several reasons:  good safety rating, great mileage, seven seats and price.  I took last Tuesday off of work to do several things (besides the fact that Scott and I had our first date ever on January 14th...and I didn't want to be at work!) including actually test-driving the car my mind had chosen.  Meiling went with me and we headed to the closest dealership, Hub Mitsubishi.  We walked around a couple of minutes, just looking at the one in the showroom (the super-duper model that I couldn't afford), and finally, a salesman came over to speak to us.  His name was George, and he had a quite heavy accent of some type.  He was friendly, though, and showed me exactly what I asked for, a 2011 Outlander.  In taking a look before driving, I discovered that the third row seat (in Meiling's words) was like a bad lawn chair.  I drove the car, and only thought it was okay.  Then he pulled the typical trick - "What about a new one?"  The new model had an upgraded third seat, and some other nice options, and was only a bit more, he said.  I drove a new one and was suitably impressed.  (I had looked at the new ones online, so it wasn't as if I was being coerced, it was an underlying idea of mine anyway.)  We went back in and told him what kinds of cars I had to trade.  They came back with some lower-than-made-me-happy numbers, but they hadn't seen them, either. (This is when I thought the Jetta would be fixed in a day.) So I waited to see what the price on the car was, then what deals were available. Around this time, a Peter Frampton song came on the radio.  I told Meilng "It's a sign!" (Peter Frampton being my number one favorite artist of all time...) We laughed about that.  Somewhere along the way, my question "what does the car cost?" got lost in translation.  After about 45 minutes of hard-to-understand conversation, George got the point that I didn't know the original price of the car.  He then wrote a price down, saying that was the deal I could have.  We left, and wiped our foreheads with exhaustion.  It was hard to understand!  He didn't hear what I was asking!  One reason after another that it had been a very tiring afternoon.

Between Tuesday and Saturday, I found out that the Jetta was not cooperating on getting repaired, so I decided: I would get it fixed and not trade it.  I would trade the BMW only and go to a different dealership where hopefully I would get more on my trade-in and understand the salesperson.  As it turns out, four hours of our Saturday were wasted at Gillman Mitsubishi.  I ended up sending a letter to all the executives listed on their website, as well as the national office.  It describes how they treated us on that Saturday. The transcript is below, in italics, if you're really bored or want to see how to shame a company.  That letter is the start of the story - here is the rest of the story.

We ran away from Gillman and went to Cracker Barrel for some comfort food.  Knowing the number that George had given me last Tuesday, I called him.  "George, I like the price you gave me.  If you can give me at least xxxx dollars on my trade, the deal is yours."  Of course, he said he'd have to see the trade, but please, come right in, we're open until 9.  We drove straight there before I could lose my nerve.

Hub Mitsubishi welcomed us with open arms and big smiles.  George was so happy we came back, and for some reason,easier to understand.  He put me in the computer, and told a joke. He got the information on my trade, and told a joke.  I was nervous!  Would they meet my demand?  When he came back with the amount, he acted like a ringmaster flourishing a new act.  No wonder he was proud!  They offered two hundred dollars over my demand!  Who does that?  (Not Gillman, that's for sure!)  In all the time it took to pull the color car I wanted from inventory and fill out paperwork, George told a few more jokes and entertained Riley with some drawing puzzles.  I looked at him and said "You should be a teacher, George, you're so good with little ones!"  He looked back at all of us and said "You want to know my real story?  I am a dentist.  I come to USA from Syria many years ago, I am dentist, my wife is pharmacist. I had to take more training to be dentist here.  I passed all training perfectly.  When time came for my written test, I looked at it and it looked like nothing I could understand.  I could not read it.  My memory disappeared.  I tried several times, I got medical care, MRIs, big medical bills, I could never pass test.  I finally stay at home four years.  Four years I sit on couch and watch TV.  They never find out what is wrong.  My memory sometimes is gone, sometimes is OK.  Finally after four years, I decide I will do something.   I start to sell cars.  Here, I show you, I am top Mitsubishi salesman the last two months.  They shook my hand and gave me one hundred dollars.  Hmph."

Talk about church falling right in our laps.....I was willing to overlook this man earlier in the week just because he had a strong accent.  He turned out to have more schooling than I do, and has overcome unknown challenges that nobody can understand.  His entire nature and demeanor is positive and fun-loving. I felt as if I were picked up by invisible hands and carried back to buy my car from George. His challenges? Met, head on.  His attitude?  Fun.  Just fun.  As the author of the Momastery blog would say:  Church, y'all.

We took a drive in the actual car with George - just to make sure and to fill it with gas for me.  Peter Frampton came on the radio.

Dear Gillman Companies,

I would like to take this opportunity to describe to you my personal situation and my recent experience at one of your dealerships: Gillman Mitsubishi.  As business owners, I would think that you would appreciate some honest feedback from a neutral source. 

I am a fifty-one year old widow.  My husband passed away in May, 2013. He left me and our two daughters well provided for, and for that I am very grateful, but I am also faced with the challenge of being wise with my expenditures and investments.  I am a school teacher in Cypress Fairbanks ISD, and my daughters both attend Texas Tech University in Lubbock, TX.  My late husband was a hydrographic surveyor, but was also quite handy at repairing vehicles.  For that reason, we all drove vehicles that were around ten years old.  Once he died, I knew that I needed to upgrade all of our vehicles to newer models for safety and the peace of mind that comes with a warranty.  I bought my youngest a 2012 Nissan in August 2013, my oldest a 2012 Honda in November 2013, and was finally looking for a vehicle for myself last week. 

I was looking for a seven-seat SUV, and started researching online.  The Mitsubishi Outlander kept popping up in surveys and safety ratings.  I was going to look for a 2012 model, same as my daughters, and within my remaining budget.  I took the day off work on Tuesday, January 14, to go look and test drive that vehicle at Hub Mitsubishi.  I discovered that the third row seat on the older models was similar to a bad lawn chair, but upgraded on the new 2014 models.  I was just on a discovery visit, but figured that I could possibly afford the SE model in a 2014 Outlander.  I was a little frustrated, though, by the heavy accent of the salesperson.  Although very friendly and polite, I didn’t feel obligated to purchase from them, but I did leave with a definite quote, in writing, on the model I was eying.

I decided to visit Gillman Mitsubishi on Saturday, January 18, in hopes of an easier and possibly better experience.  Here is my honest account of my four hours at your dealership.  I brought along my friend and her ten-year-old daughter for support.  We were approached soon after getting out of my car by a salesman named Youssef. He seemed a polite, well-spoken older gentleman.  I told him what I was looking for, and asked the difference (which I did not know at the time) between the SE and ES trim models.  He then took us inside while he tried to find the answer, telling us that he was brand new with Mitsubishis, and please bear with him.  I kept trying to explain that I was hoping to price an SE model with the sunroof, leather seats and premium sound, but did not know if that made it an ES model.  He had to check with a manager named Walter, who introduced himself, and, I believe, helped Youssef locate a car for me to test drive.  It had none of the options I had mentioned, and nobody had explained to me yet whether an SE could come with those options.  The vehicle they brought around for me to drive had a sticker price of around $24,000.  I knew about the $1500 rebate until the end of January, and it had a big red tag hanging from the mirror that said “Red Tag Special” (printed) followed by “After all discounts and rebates” (hand written) then “3600 off”.  Knowing that this would bring it into my budget range, I finally agreed to give up on asking for the sunroof, etc. model and test drive this one.  Youssef told me flat out to stay on the feeder road, make the U-turn and come back on the feeder.  There was no chance to drive it on the highway itself.  When we finished driving, we did walk the lot to see the sunroof model, but by that time I had talked myself out of splurging on that cost, an easier decision to make once I saw the leather was the sporty type with the holes, and no elegant smooth leather was available.  That being decided, we went inside to check my trade-in and price the new car.  Two hours had now passed. 

Youssef started asking me questions for a form he had about where I was going to drive the car, how many miles a year I thought I would drive….ridiculous-type questions that he said were on a company survey, even if I were paying cash. (We thought they were the questions for leasing a vehicle.)  In the meantime, the ten-year-old was starting to get hungry.  She had not had lunch, as it was a weekend and she had a late breakfast.  My friend went to look for the vending machine.  They both came and sat down dejectedly a few minutes later.  The vending machine was empty.

We finally got to the point where I said “Let’s see what you will offer for my trade-in, and I’ll consider a purchase.” Between Youssef taking my answers to fill out yet another form, him going into the manager’s window and standing at the counter, walking back to ask ‘one more question’ about the trade vehicle, another hour passed.  During that hour, someone came in the front of the showroom with bags and bags of Whataburger – your staff’s lunch.  I would not deny any working person their lunch, but surely there must be a back door, or a workroom where such things can be accomplished.  Even the service people were coming up to the glass room at the front of the showroom to get their lunches. With the Whataburger smell egging on the little one’s hunger, my friend ended up walking to the dealership next door and purchasing some snacks from their vending machine. 

When I got the final offer on my trade-in, I was insulted.  However, that is not my complaint in this letter.  I will tell you that I received $1200 more for that vehicle from the dealership where I finally made my purchase.  With that final offer at Gillman, Youssef put the numbers on paper.  The sticker price PLUS 1495 for etching. I said I didn’t want that.  He said Gillman adds that to all of its vehicles before they go on the lot.  He then subtracted the $3600 on the tag.  I asked where the $1500 rebate was.  He said that it was included in the $3600.  I claimed that the tag said the $3600 was taken off after all rebates and incentives.  He went and spent another twenty minutes in the glass manager’s office.  Finally, the rudest man of all, a manager named Cesar, came and sat down with the sticker from the vehicle and the red tag. He confronted me with an arrogant manner, not polite at all.  He showed me on the price sticker the price – and on the next line the $1495 etching fee.  No total was shown.  He said it was fairly represented and asked if Youssef had told me about it. I said no, and that I didn’t want that option.  He simply said that was too bad because it’s impossible, all the vehicles have it.  Then he laid the red tag on the table. A picture of the tag is enclosed for your reference.  The tag clearly stated that the $3600 would come off the price after all rebates and incentives.  Cesar reacted as if I were stupid and could not read the tag.  I must admit at that point I told him he needed to go back to school.  I stood my ground, and asked for them to also take the rebate off the price.  Youssef went and stood in the glass window for another session, after which he came and handed me my insurance card and the key to my trade-in and said “I’m sorry we can’t help you” thus ended my four-hour ordeal at Gillman Mitsubishi. 

In all, I would have to rank my experience at Gillman at the top of the worst business dealings that I have had to endure since being widowed eight months ago. I sat for 3 1/2 hours without being offered water, encountered person after person that either could not answer my questions or made no effort to concede or apologize that perhaps they could have gotten something wrong or that I ‘caught’ them in trying to trick me into spending too much money.  Your upper management may have won all sorts of awards, but if you don’t sell a product with politeness and precision, your reputation will soon sink you.  I believe this holds even truer when a widow is looking to spend cash of that amount out of her husband’s life insurance.  Thank you for listening to my experience.  I hope you can find a way to take my words into account and make things more polite and fair for future customers – which will never include me.

Sincerely,

Diane McCarty

Gilbert O'Sullivan Said It Best 1/17/14

Gilbert O'Sullivan Said It Best. You know, that horribly sad song about being alone.  "Alone Again, Naturally".  (Thank you, Mom, for listening to cool music on WLCY when we were little.).That one could make me bawl out loud on a great day, when no heartache had ever touched me. The narrative of the mother losing the father, and she "couldn't understand why the only man she had ever loved had been taken....."  Yes, that song says it best. Haven't heard it in a while?  Here ya go:

Gilbert O'Sullivan - Alone Again, Naturally



I wanted to write about other songs with phrases that make the tears flow.  "Can I handle the seasons of my life?" (Landslide). "Whenever I see your smiling face, I have to smile myself, 'cause I love you..." (James Taylor).  But it's been too rough of a week, and I'm facing so many challenges right now - yes, right now, 8 1/2 months later - that I'm really proud if I remember to give the animals their food, because they need that to live.  I can't think of those songs.

The problem is: I like to be perfect. He enabled me to be perfect, because he was behind the scenes making everything perfect.  I'm trying now, good Lord, I'm trying.  It's not happening.  Everyone - that smiley me that you see every day?  That smart-aleck person that posts silly stuff?   That's not me.  That's the fake me.  The fake me HAS to exist, because I couldn't do life if she didn't.  I hope I'm so good at being fake that the little children don't know.  If you adults suspect, I'm fine with that.  Speak up.  Tell me again that I'll make it, I"m strong.....I need your encouragement.  That's a really difficult admission for someone that has made a career of looking people (sometimes very young people) in the  eye and saying "You can DO it!!"  Many, many of them DID do it, in whatever way, and I'm so proud.  I think I have a legacy out there.

I'll smile again on Tuesday.  And if you smile with me, and tell me it's okay not to be perfect, thank you.  I'm alone, but I'm not deserted.

The Most Special Kiss 1/14/14

Thirty-three years ago tonight, I went on a date with a guy on my boyfriend's hall, because my boyfriend was busy.  My boyfriend said, "Whatever you do, just don't kiss him goodnight.".  There's nothing like a challenge, is there?  There was definitely a goodnight kiss; we owned up to it and I said goodbye to the boyfriend -who was a really great guy in his own right, it just didn't work out that way! The new guy's name was Scott, and we saw each other every night for a month, until Valentine's day. We were pretty head over heels.  January 14, 1981.  We even scheduled our wedding on July 14, 1984, to reflect that date.

I didn't know he wouldn't live to see only thirty-three years from that kiss. Today, January 14, 2014, I have had a dead car towed from my garage, called two different bank accounts to see what paperwork they actually require to change names/ close accounts, called the college savings plan to find out  the same info, tried to call the Norway tax office to get details on paying the Norwegian tax, and printed out a ream of papers to change the IRA to my name.  He's been gone eight months and I just got the affidavit from the court to be able to do these things.  (Well, the car didn't require court papers, that's just my luck.)

I wish I had clever or cute words to tell you that life sometimes hurts like hell.  My heart feels withered even though laughter and smiles still occupy my face.  When I do ordinary things, it takes twice the effort, because I really don't care as much anymore. That goodnight kiss thirty-three years ago tonight was wrong, it was cheating; and I hope I apologized and moved on correctly.....but it was also the most special kiss of my life.

Where My Brain Goes During Staff Development 1/11/14

It is the bane (or blessing, if you choose) of any teacher's existence:  having to sit through hours of staff development.  Usually occurring at the beginning of the year, prior to students returning from holidays, or on the odd Monday holiday - students off, staff in session, teachers sit for hours to be what; taught new methods?  inspired to change everything they do? be told we're valuable no matter what the world thinks?  If you assume that I've met my quota of staff development hours every year I've taught, then at the end of this year, I've sat through 575 hours of these lovely meetings.  How am I not perfect yet?  Besides the fact that nobody is perfect, the other answer is that over a span of thirty years, the exact same ideas are being implemented, but they are packaged with different wording.  If I say the words from twenty years ago to praise or remind, I'm not doing it right anymore. Same ideas, different words.  I recently sat through a day of listening to a speaker that was guaranteed (by our administration) to be wonderful!!!  You will learn so much! Be excited!  Let me bring out my inner Yoda as I say - "Exciting to me, meetings are not."  I decided to bring a pen and let my thoughts flow onto paper to keep myself looking engaged.  Here's a little view of where my brain went from 8:30 a..m. to 11:30 a.m., with one twenty minute break:

Go ahead, inspire me.  Try to tell me something that I haven't heard.  The first try - telling me I'm older, smarter and I have skills.  As I've said many times before, 'There's your "duh" for the day.'  Keep trying.  Next, you tell me to put my phone out of sight (not a bad thing) because every time it goes off, some chemicals are released in my brain.  Yeah, chemicals are released for me every time I smell the pizza from the cafeteria next door, too.  That's life.  So, you got our phones put away.  Now you go over the handout.  Thank you so much for telling me what is contained in the papers that I'm holding in my hand  Oh good, a new power point slide!  Please read it out loud to me because I'm a teacher and reading is hard.  Also, I do not agree with the quote.  From famed teacher and child psychologist Haim Ginott, it reads:

“I’ve come to a frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom. It’s my personal approach that creates the climate. It’s my daily mood that makes the weather. As a teacher, I possess a tremendous power to make a child’s life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration. I can humiliate or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis will be escalated or de-escalated and a child humanized or dehumanized.” 
― Haim G. Ginott

I do agree with most of that, but not the crisis escalating part.  I have personally seen situations escalate even when I'm at my personal best.  Dr. Ginott's observations are from the 1950s through the 1970s.  We need to keep the valuable and do away with what has changed with time.

Oooh!  Time to take notes! No, not really, just time to read the note-taking paper to me.  Once again, I guess I can't read.  More of the comedy routine (this is a fairly entertaining speaker, as they go...)about how tired teachers get, and how they go to happy hour together.

Finally!  We take notes about how our classroom looks.  And then about behaviors - we are supposed to tell them (the children) in all our gestures and behaviors that we want them here, we believe they can learn and we'll keep them as safe as possible.  (Good points, I've heard and used them for 23 years.)   Comedy moments were demonstrated concerning how our behavior is communication. (Example - a teacher yelling "What have I told you about yelling?"  haha)

Next we're asked "Do you get mad?"  Discussion (one sided) of what we do when we're mad.  All leading up to the point that we do not choose to sit in time out when we're mad.  So here we are, being told that we are doing it all wrong.  Don't say "don't hit".  Tell a kid that flips everyone off to do it in their pocket.  I don't know if I think that's ridiculous or I'm jealous because I didn't think of it.

We are told to ask ourselves:  "Can I be a perfect role model 100% of the time?"  We are told to remove "appropriate" and "inappropriate" from our disciplinary vocabulary.  Easier said than done.  A little contradiction is going on here. we can set a "parameter" and validate that a child has the urge to [hit, fight, curse, cheat....] and re-iterate the parameter for school.  But when you set parameters at school, isn't that because the action is not appropriate? Does simply changing "inappropriate" to "not ok" change the brain chemical?

So much of what this presenter is saying is the same thing I've been taught - on the job - for years.  And I personally use a lot of these techniques - maybe even in a very excellent, exemplary way.  Many teachers at my school do all these things well.

For the past 2.5 hours, this is what's been said.  It boils down to frame of mind.  She is saying "I did not say there are no consequences".  But she only gave examples of non-working consequences.  She didn't give concrete, usable examples of what to do once it's a necessity.  Consequences are seriously downplayed in the district, though, so that's probably a grand scheme.

Lunch is in six minutes and all I can think about is the pain in the bones of my rear end, as I've been sitting on a 12-inch diameter plastic disc for four hours.  And while I sit here contemplating whether this pain in my rear (literal, this time...) affects my bursitis, the speaker is making some of her most hard-hitting, serious, dynamic points and I'm not hearing a word.  Money well-spent, district?


Thus ends my free-write from my day of learning.  The afternoon session was another three hours of the same thing. My hand wouldn't write anymore.  But you know what?  The next day, students walked into my room.  I let them know that I was happy they were there, that I believed they could learn and that they were in a safe place.  I didn't do that because of the speaker. I did that because I love kids, I love teaching my subject to kids and I naturally adjust to the atmosphere and the basic needs of those kids to get them to learn and love music.

What the Unicorn Girl Said - 1/5/14

It's still all around; the Christmas stuff.  I've started kind of moving it to one table, so I can eventually put it away so, so neatly.  That's how my mind thinks. There's really only three things on that table.  I feel that when I pack it all away, he is gone from Christmas forever.  Replaced by the one that we did totally by ourselves.

Between that first paragraph and the start of this one, it's all put away.  Well, mostly.  I always leave out two boxes for a few extra days - one for the towels, pot holders, things that need washing; the other for the 'extra' finds that are inevitably missed in the first clean-up sweep.  I feel accomplished. Yet I feel......I feel cheated. I feel cheated because I was reminded, in cleaning up the year, of what was stolen from me. I feel the need to share something that came home with me, and you can take from it what you will.  I am mostly sharing this for two types of people; adults with sentimental memories of their own, and young adult girls (women) like my daughters that are in the midst of dating, falling in love, and trying to find that special someone.

I have all sorts of memories of my husband around the house.  I will work on organizing, deciding what to save, what to pass on.......one of these days.  Right now, I just look at things occasionally, and put them back in their cabinet or drawer or box.  I'll get the right feeling when I'm ready.  Perhaps moving into the new year will advance that feeling, but then again, maybe not.  I'll just have to wait and see.

I visited my mother-in-law for a couple of days over the holidays.  At one point, she handed me a manila envelope, taped closed, marked "Scott-memories".  I slid it into the front flat zipper pocket on my suitcase and promptly forgot about it.  (Conveniently forgetting things is a part of grief, perhaps one of my greatest defenses!)  I forgot so hard that I didn't even remember to close the zipper on that pouch when I checked my bag to fly.  The envelope was partially sticking out when I claimed the bag.  After an "oh crap!" moment, I zipped it closed and forgot about it again.

So, as part of the "put away Christmas", I decided to get those last few things out of the suitcase so it could be put away as well.  And there was the envelope.  I saved it for bedtime, alone time, no interaction-with-other-humans time.....just in case.  I cut open the tape, and pulled out one thing at a time.  Drawings, report cards, birthday cards, progress reports, one after another.  Then, two envelopes.  The first, an inner envelope of a sort, with his parent's names - "Trudy and Jim" in my handwriting.  I opened it - she had saved our wedding invitation from 1984. I glanced at it, had a few memories, and put it away.  I have one, too, so now each girl can have one if they want it.  The second envelope held a card, and was addressed to Scott by me, postmarked July 9, 1981.

Our first date was January 14, 1981, so this was almost six months later.  I was eighteen years old, and it was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year.  I pulled out the card - it had a big unicorn on the cover.  Yes, I was a unicorn girl. I admit it.  Some of the vestiges are still around, coffee mugs and figurines.  It's really time to clean out!  I opened the card and started reading.  Mostly descriptions of what I was doing, and had to do in the next few days.  Sweet, innocent, young.  But right in the middle, there it was.  The part that brought me to tears.  How could I say this after only six months?  I would chastise any young girl that did so today! These words, though, brought home to me what I'd lost, how invested I was, and why it's so easy now to "be strong" and yet so difficult to "move on".

If you are a young girl looking for the right person today, saying words like this may happen through text or tweet, or snapchat, or whatever ghostly invention comes next.  And I feel sad that you won't be able to hold it in your hands thirty-three years later and smile or cry or laugh about it.  If you are saying something like this, though, be aware that you could actually be expressing a desire for what will turn out to be your whole life.  It could come true, it could be made real.  Just be aware of that.  It was made real for me, and I was fortunate; it was true and turned out beyond well. Hence my strength. Also my sadness.  Here's to memories for us that are older, and to looking for your happily-ever-after for those that are searching.

My words to him, in pretty cursive writing in a unicorn card:

"I can't wait to see you again.  I feel like I can face the world if you're there holding my hand.  You make me so strong - you know that, don't you? I love you."

I'm a fake and a phony 1/1/14

I spend a lot of time convincing myself through words that I type that I am trying to be positive.  Convincing others that I have a healthy attitude.  Trying to find little nuggets of truth and inspiration in everyday life and prove that I'm grateful for what I still have.  Then a day or an event happens and I'm a fake.  If I said how I really feel, I'm afraid that everyone around me would quote Sandy from "Grease"; "You're a fake and a phony, and I wish I'd never laid eyes on you!".

I'm not well.  I'm still pouting.  And with all the time that goes by, I find more to pout about.  Every normal obstacle that blocks my path feels like a personal affront to my widow-hood.  The car won't start?  That's because I'm a widow.  The dog got out? That's because my husband died.  It's silly, I know, but when I go to bed alone at night, and wake up alone every morning, the void is an entity that has taken on powers of great proportion.  The void of him seems to cause every little bit of trouble I have.

And so the year ended yesterday.  All day long, I was extremely sad. Tears were close at any given moment.  I tried to explain it - the end of the year he died, entering a new year without him, an overload of people when I've gotten used to quiet, all kinds of "reasons".  The real reason?  I think my life sucks now, and outwardly I put on a brave face and list everything for which I'm grateful.  Most days, I can convince myself.  Most days, gratefulness wins.  But you know what?  It will be a long time before I don't pout anymore.  Expect that from me.  You can ask "what's wrong?".  But you can also correctly say, 90% of the time; "Oh, one of those days, huh?"  I'm going to make it.  I just don't think it's going to be a very scenic route.  My apologies, but I'm pretty sure my excuse is a good one.

I'm cornbread - Who are you? 12/30/13

Have you ever had a piece of really fine, Southern-cooked cornbread?  Bacon grease, buttermilk, and an iron skillet are all involved in creating the delectable treat.  Its rich, flavorful, crunchy-soft texture makes it perfect as a bread or a "sopper" - a side dish designed to mop up grave or juices so nothing of a delicious meal is wasted.

It's obvious, is it not, that I am a fan of cornbread.  But this story has nothing to do with actually eating cornbread.  There was no cornbread in either of the Christmas meals in which I participated.  Ham was the main dish at both sides of the family's gatherings. The breads of choice were potato rolls and yeast rolls.  No, cornbread just popped into my mind one day.  The sixth day of our holiday trip, I was sitting in the living room with many beloved family members, and the thought just occurred - "I feel like a piece of cornbread.".  I was in the overwhelming emotional state of love, grief, exhaustion, recovery from illness, desire to help, desire to sleep - and I pictured myself as a triangle of cornbread.  I don't mean that I had been stirred and baked at a high heat.  I mean that the consistency and purposes of the piece of cornbread as it sits on the dinner plate seemed to perfectly portray my perception of how I react to all overtures and approaches to me.

First things first - I feel loved. I feel loved by friends.  I feel loved at work.  I especially felt loved when visiting the families this past week.  It's so good to get to see the family.  I love seeing and spending time with everyone.  We're all different, yet all a part of the same group.  I think of it as a meal on a plate - all your different items, and I'm the piece of cornbread.  Nobody would not want the cornbread there - I belong.

I feel covered.  I feel as if everyone wants to spread a layer of protection over me like so much butter!  Thank you, by the way.  I have needed a lot of protection this year.   Sometimes, without that layer of people to step up to others and say "Do you know who this is?" or "Let me tell you what you're dealing with here...", I would have dried up and crumbled away.  Many family, friends, and even social media acquaintances have spread a layer of protection over me by coming to my defense in some matter or sympathizing with their own experience stories that make me laugh and feel as if I'm not alone.

A good cornbread is a little crumbly.  It's a coarse bread, so those pieces sometimes just crumble away. I can identify with the crumbly nature of cornbread.  Innocent things - tv commercials, e-mails, greeting cards, comments, questions, advice - all of those can crumble me in a second.  Just as the fork doesn't mean to hit the cornbread on its way to the vegetables, the world doesn't mean to stab me. My consistency right now makes it easy for little things to just stick in and knock a piece of me away.  If anyone can actually give me a real, factual system for not being too sensitive, I will listen and try it.  How do you change the way you are emotionally made?  The important part, though, is that even though I may get a bit crumbled, so many others are there for me to hold me together.

To know I'm not alone is such an advantage.  There are big chunks of time when I am now physically alone.  (There will be another post someday on the advantages of dogs and cats.)  But I am not alone in any way other than that. Just as all the servings of food on a plate bump into each other, and the juices roll around to be soaked up by the cornbread, I am surrounded, in spirit, with so many of you that drop everything to be there if I call, text,  make a comment, or cry out through a status.  You reach out and I soak it up.  Thank you.  Just as cornbread is made richer by soaking in some juice (I'm thinking good old-fashioned beans and cornbread, a little sausage with it....), I am made richer and stronger by your support.  I am trying to take steps on the road to recovery.  When I stop still and stare, it may be your simple smile or pat on the arm that gives me strength to pick up my foot and take another step.

So, here's to the new year. I can make an honest toast that says "May it be better than 2013."  Even thinking that hurts, though, because 2013 contained my last months of my "old" life.  The life I thought I'd live forever. Thank goodness for the love and ideas and wisdom out there that this little ol' piece of cornbread can soak up. I might sit and stare and act a little bland, but please know I gather in your wishes, hugs and love and convert them to the strength to go on.  Happy New Year.

I Want to Run With the Hobbit! 12/14/13

I saw the second installation of "The Hobbit" last night.  Yes, I'm a fan.  A regular fan, not a Comic-con level fan (although I have attended Comic-con, go figure!) I have read the book quite a few times during my life, including one time OUT LOUD, completely through,  to my children. I love Bilbo, the dwarfs, their escapades, Gandalf, Gollum, even Smaug.  Orcs and dragons are bad.  Hobbits, dwarfs and elves are good.  What's not to love?

What I love best, though, is the way that the characters that are small in stature think that they are setting out (in the beginning) to accomplish a small task, for themselves.  The dwarfs want their homeland back.  Bilbo simply wants to experience a little adventure.  However, since they have to cross the paths of other species, travel strange lands and awaken old rivalries, they end up being elevated to little heroes whose somewhat selfish endeavors could actually save their world from evil!
(My own liberal summation, apologies to Mr. Tolkien and all the experts.)

I sat through the opening of the movie, wondering why I didn't feel sad.  Last Christmas, our family of four saw the first one together.  There aren't too many occasions on which an entire family can see a movie adaptation of a book they have all read and loved.  We even saw it at a restaurant/cinema place, similar to the one we were at last night. But I didn't feel sad.  I have the 'he should be here' thoughts, but the atmosphere, being with my girls, the food.....the sadness was not able to attack.  I'm glad it wasn't, because it enabled me to enjoy the movie from the very opening, where I was completely inspired by two scenes. 

Near the beginning, the dwarfs, Bilbo and Gandalf have to run from the Orcs.  The director, Peter Jackson, (who is extremely passionate about bring these books to film - I suspect he is part hobbit...) takes advantage of the beautiful New Zealand countryside and shows a long shot of the whole group just running across a beautiful field backed by gorgeous mountains.  They must have acted the hell out of that running, because it got me.  I sat there thinking "I want to run with the hobbits!!"  A few scenes later, they cross some similarly gorgeous landscape, only this time on Beorn's stately horses.  Once again, I could only think, "I want to ride with them! Go, you dwarfs and hobbit, go!"

The dwarfs and the hobbit were running and riding away from evil Orcs, but they were also running with a purpose to accomplish some good.  They don't realize at that point in the story just how much good, and at what a cost, but they were running! They were riding horses, fast!  I am inspired to run to do my small good things.  I am inspired that if I do some small good in my life, that it might fit together like a jigsaw puzzle with others who do small good in their lives......and greater good can happen!

Almost everyone I know strives to do their own good each day.  I have been fortunate in life to always be able to surround myself with positive people.  I do know that we live in the real world, not Middle Earth.  But I hope that the good that we all put out there every day can make a difference.  Our enemy is not an evil sorcerer/wizard.  We all use our good to counteract neglect, meanness, hunger, poverty, disease, all those "bad" things in the world.  I'm glad I saw the dwarfs and hobbit running.  It gave me joy.  It had me cheering for the good guys.  And it let me know that small good can work together for bigger purposes.

Sometimes, though, I approach my day, my golden opportunity to put more 'good' out there, with a sigh.  I've had some good reasons, but I think it's time to try and run.  One sigh or one deep breath can help, but then it's time to run.  Time to smile, time to look and listen and encourage. That won't be easy every day, but it's worth a try.  I want to run with the hobbit - but since that's impossible, I will try to "run" to make my own small difference for good.

The Hardest Questions of All. Thanks, Santa. 12/12/13

Little ones ask so many questions.  Personal questions - "How old are you?"  Silly questions - "Can I have that bracelet?"  Blunt questions - "Are those real diamonds?"  But the two hardest questions of all occur this time of year:  "Mrs. Rush, is Santa real?"  followed by "Mrs. Rush, do you believe in Santa?"  Elementary teachers have to face the fact the there are as many levels of belief in their classroom as there are students.  We also have to face the fact that those students believe whatever we say.  We are the teachers.  We speak wisdom and truth!  I bill myself as a teacher that only tells the truth.  So, when I was asked these difficult questions today, as I have been so many years in a row, I gave an answer that has been many years in the making:

"Is Santa real?  Jailynn says he's not."  Oh boy, here we go.  Carefully worded truth. These were second graders.  I personally found out the truth from a kid in my class in third grade.  I was angry and disappointed.  Considering this little questioner was about the same age, I spoke very cautiously:

"Now, my little friends, you might be hearing all sorts of things about Santa from your friends here in your class at school. I think that Santa is very much alive in the spirit of giving.  Different families have different ways that they share that with their kids, so please believe whatever your parents tell you.  This season is about love and giving.  Sometimes we give gifts, sometimes we give a song, sometimes we give our time to help someone.  Santa is one of the leaders behind all that giving, but we are all involved in it.  I hope that you have the chance to give a little bit this season and see how it makes you happy.  Even if what you give is your best smile." (The room erupts into smiley faces.)

"But what about what Jailynn said?"  "Well, her family still believes in giving and being sweet.  Her parents just explain it in a different way from your parents.  But that's ok if the real purpose is being nice."

"Why doesn't Santa bring presents to grown-ups?"  "Well, it's not because all grown-ups are bad.  I'm certainly not bad!" (giggle eruption).  "I think it's because when you are very little you only know how to get stuff.  When you get older, you learn how to give yourself, so Santa doesn't have to give you things to teach you that anymore." (Can we please sing now?)

Then, the granddaddy of them all:  "Mrs. Rush, do you believe in Santa?"  Dead silence.  They think they've got me.  "I have to say yes, my friends.  I believe in Santa as he represents the spirit of giving.  I believe in Santa in the idea that if you are good, good things come to you.  I try to practice that all year long on you boys and girls by giving treasure box goodies to the well-behaved children.  I believe that once you really know Santa as a grown-up, you understand that giving is so much more than a present.  Giving can be a smile, saying someone looks nice, visiting someone, calling them, writing them a note, or singing them a song. This is the truth that Santa represents and in my heart I know it's true.  Believe what your mom and dad tell you. That will be different for everyone in here, but don't we celebrate differences at our school?" (Nodding heads) "Santa wants you to grow up to have a giving heart, so he sets the example."  (Quiet.....)  "Now let's sing - please give me some beautiful songs with beautiful voices today!"  Smiles - music - action.  Thanks, Santa.

A Fingernail Fable 12/8/13

Friday morning hurry-up.  All my fault, because I just didn't want to get out of bed.  Have you ever been there?  Life is happening outside your bedroom, outside your house, people are driving, drinking coffee, already having meetings......and your bed is just so warm and cozy that it's an actual argument with yourself to throw back the covers and stand up.  We've all been there, I guess.  When I do that, I can adjust the getting ready and still make it to work on time, but I still hurry.  So during the hurry-up, I bent a fingernail backward trying to fasten my seat belt.  A small reminder to slow down, it's all going to be there, whether I hurry to fasten the belt or do it at normal speed!  Smoothing down the fingernail, I drove to work.  The school was still there.

I'm not used to having any sort of long fingernails.  A combination of weak nails and piano playing has always left me without nails as an accessory.  Except for the few years of fake nails, they have always just been short and.... there.  In the past eight months, they're stronger.  They grow.  I have to cut them and file them down.  It's very strange to me - did a chemical change happen in my body when I entered grief? Or was it due to happen anyway?  I don't know, but I do know that these knives that extend from my fingertips - and the care they require - is a new sensation.

Later Friday evening, the same backward-bent nail caught on something.  You know, that sensation when it brushes cloth and you feel that little drag?  I took a look.  There was a cut in the middle of the tip.  Not a big one, but like some tiny scissors just made one cut.  I went to the place where I now keep the clippers and newly-acquired file, trimmed it and filed it smooth.  It lost a little length, but it's still there.  I suppose that was the price of decorating the tree.  As Saturday came and went, more nails lost their way to the housework/decoration activities.  They were shorter, but they were still there.

Today, Sunday, makes eight months since he's been gone.  I don't really put much stock in anniversaries, but having made this portion of the grief journey personally, I see a truth.  I slowly file away my old life.  It's still there, it's just shorter.  I can buy the low-fat eggnog now, there's nobody left to complain about it.  When it's just me home, I have music playing.  When it was just us, it was always the television.  Still the same machine, just different.  When a situation changes, I adapt.  Humans adapt.  The situation is still there, but we carry on and find ways to make it. 

Adaptation isn't easy.  Sometimes it even hurts!  I took all the lights off the fifty-foot long stair garland yesterday.  Those lights have been wound around that garland for so many years that they were caught in the little wires in certain places.  As I separated the lights from the thin little wire inside the garland, I felt the thin wire slice right under my fingernail.  OUCH!  Who says decorating for Christmas is fun!  After I finished the garland experience, (a new garland is now required....) I checked the fingernail damage.  Sure enough, trim it, file it, it's still there.  Only I think the cut might leave a little scar.  And so it goes - the old life is still there, it's just been adapted, filed away, had its shape changed......with a few scars to show for the hurt along the way.

My (burned out) light bulb moment 12/1/13

I have been shoring up the defenses.  "The holidays are hard...".  Every friend that has recent experience with loss, everyone with one ounce of common sense even, will share that information with me.  Not to be mean, just a way of saying they understand, they commiserate, they're there for me.  So I prepared.  I have stayed busy.  I had company.  I had the kids around.  I cooked.  We shopped.  Busy, busy, busy.  The holiday, Thanksgiving day itself, was great.  We had fun.  It wasn't until today, with everybody gone again, that the reality, and the realization of what "The holidays are hard" really means. 

Dropping nephew Zach at the airport on Saturday was bittersweet.  We love that kid. (Not really a kid, but a kid to me!)  We'll see him at Christmas, so we said goodbye, and headed on to more busy-ness.  The girls crammed in last minute shopping and nails, then spent the last night with their respective friends.  The quiet was relaxing.  I watched a little TV with kitten Isis on my lap, then went to sleep knowing it was the last night of a full house.  Still, I thought I was prepared.  The holiday was past, I made it, no breakdowns.  I had answered everyone that checked on me.  I held my head up, I held grief at bay. 

Unfortunately, all my shields can't stop the slow tide of sadness that creeps around the edges and invades my mind and my heart.  I noticed the feeling before the girls even woke up.  I did the usual, and hid it away.  Even my own mom says "she hides it very well....".  I can't help it, it's natural.  We got the girls fed, packed and ready.  Little Isis got in the car, and they were off down the road.  One or two tears rolled, but I found things to do. 

After I finished a few regular chores, I decided I could at least put up the Christmas tree.  We didn't get to that.  No decorating, just put together the three pieces of the pre-lit tree.  Easy, and a start.  I love this tree.  I've only had it two years, it's ten feet tall, pre-lit and beautiful.  I brought it in, got started, and when I got to the top, the third piece, one whole section of lights was burned out.  I unplugged and re-plugged.  I changed the fuse.  I changed three bulbs and said forget it - I'm going to get a new string of lights and just put it on top of those. 

I threw on a decent shirt, put on my shoes and drove to Walgreen's.  Two strings of clear lights were left, and one of them was mine.  I paid, got in the car and wham - it hit me.  I sobbed so hard on the way home I'm surprised I could drive.  I kept thinking "This is what everybody told me - the holidays are hard!"  It wasn't putting up the tree, it wasn't even the burned-out lights. He would not have fixed the lights - the tree was my domain. The big sadness was having to face and deal with the problem in silence.  I would have been able to complain to him.  Those burned-out lights actually gave me a bright "light bulb moment" of my own.  A huge part of our married life and any family life is that we can complain to each other.  And, being married, or being family, you support that other person.  I miss the person I could "bitch to".  I miss him making fun of me when I complained about silly things.  That's why I think the holidays are hard - there are more very happy and very stressful moments than at other times.  And sharing those moments is a habit.  I had to have a good cry about missing my sounding board.  The expected holiday breakdown had arrived, uninvited and unwelcome.  It passed when my super-friend made me get up and walk, as we do most nights.

After the walk, I put the new lights around the dark area of the tree.  It looks perfect now.  What's dark can be made light again.  The burned-out bulbs are still underneath the new ones, though.  Hopefully they "hide them very well".  Bring on Christmas.  I'm carrying my tissues.