Drive...

If you are a parent, there is nothing carefree about this stretch of road...

The action of driving: impending dread

(for oh-so-many reasons in South Florida!)

and what will bring our family

to the brink of bankruptcy when

we have three additional males insured

under our policy.  God help us.

But only if the grocery bills

don’t drive us there first. Seriously.  

Check out what drives Melissa and Six Word Fridays!

Guilt...

Red velvet cupcakes.

Spinning for 60.

Here's to hoping

that my guilt

(and weight) disappear

as quickly as

that damned cupcake.

Guilty?  Need to confess?  Check out Melissa's blog and Six Word Fridays!

Bargain Hunting...

I was a broke college student.

I practiced snagging a good bargain.

As a mother of three boys,

and a still broke, underpaid, schoolteacher

bargains are a method of survival,

thoroughly perfected and strategically planned maneuvers.

Sometimes, the thrill of the hunt,

makes the catch all the sweeter.

And it makes your walk through

this life just a bit more fashionable,

especially when clearance is 30% off,

and free shipping of the prize.

My beautiful, waterproof boots arrived this week to greet me on a depressing Monday afternoon.  Online, on clearance, 30% off AND free shipping.  No crowds and on the cheap?  Yes, life is very good!

More than you bargained for?  Check out Melissa's blog and learn about Six Word Fridays!

Making it count...

Making my list.

Checking it twice.

Good at making something?  Check out Melissa and Six Word Fridays.

How to... try to have fun (in spite of the kids)

Book a weekend alone, plan outings.

Pack your bags, kiss the kids.

Say goodbye. Wave. Peel rubber, baby!

Make your way to your destination.

Toast your good fortune, your escape.

Beach, restaurants, big plans: movies, dancing.

Reality? These two "fun" people's plans?

Fizzled out with the evening's twilight.

The culprits? Not the usual suspects.

No little boys and their antics...

Too much sun, too many cocktails,

Super early bird dinners sans children,

Make for sleeping parents at 9:00 p.m.

Know how to do something?  Visit Melissa and check out Six Word Fridays!

"I didn't do anything..."

When that phrase is the first thing you hear, and it is often accompanied by an increasing decibel-ed wail, nothing good can follow.

If you really think about it, they did do something. Actually, lots of some things.

Like make you a mom.

They make you wonder if you are losing your mind on a daily basis.

They challenge you to be the kind of person they already think you are.

They force you to challenge yourself, try new things, just to be an example that puts their money where their mouth is.

They provide you with ample opportunity to stretch your physical limitations on a daily basis, sometimes, even down to an hourly basis. You never knew how strong you were, how much endurance you had until you had a kid. Double that with each additional offspring borne by you.

They make you question every manufacturer, teacher, assignment, food, additive, vaccination, decision you have ever made or are going to make. They make you think twice before ingesting your favorite sanity food (or drink), wondering how it will affect your longevity/health and their well-being.

They make you reprioritize, whether you want to or not. You just can't do the stuff you want to, even when you want to, 'cause you've got them. Everything is colored with the responsibility of their existence; their well-being.

And even though there are days when you feel like you can go no further, that you would gladly walk out and never return, you are a better person because of them.

When those words are uttered in my house, they often bring me a tremor or two (or three) of fear.  But mostly, I am grateful.  Mostly.

So, keep thinking you didn't do anything.

Nothing could be further from the truth. 

And hopefully, one day, when you hear those words from your brawling kids, you will have to smile to yourself before putting your game face on, and know what makes my heart keeping beating happily.

Waiting...

On days like today, I feel like the waiting is endless. It seems as though I am always waiting on something to change, to getter better. I am always waiting for someone, sometime, to be ready, to get their act together.

On some days, like today, my tolerance is not as good as it used to be.

I am tired.

I am fed up of people behaving badly.

Of people who should know better to ACTUALLY do better.

And it makes me sad that these people misuse the opportunity they have to help others in inspiring ways. To use their opportunity to uplift people instead of bringing them down.

It makes me sad that I am still so naive when it comes to human nature, even though I'd like to think I am a cynical chick.

So, I am waiting.

Waiting to get over my over-anxious nature and not get worked up.

Waiting for the endless four days ahead of Spring Break.

Waiting for the glorious beach and hopefully, a couple of days at the sunny shore, ready to toss my thoughts into the endless waves.

And, I am waiting to be able to DO better, 'cause I know better.

And hoping I don't fall short.

Cupid's got a sense of humor...

Valentine's Day is for single people. How do I know?

People who go out to dinner, buy and wrap gifts, fill out cards and plan evening lingerie have the luxury of time. They have illusions. They do not have children.

People with children plan Valentine's dinner...at home. They do their shopping ahead of time, because the thought of taking your children shopping for food on Valentine's Day can send you to an early grave.

People with children scribble their Valentine's Day card to their significant others 5 minutes before they give it to them. They buy their practical Valentine's Day gifts along with the week's supply of toilet paper and milk.

They don't bother with lingerie for the evening, fully knowing that the only action that will happen is if the three year old has a nightmare and comes to the bed of his comatose parents.

I tried pre-planning. I tried celebrating ahead of time. But my kids tennis coach decided that she would cancel LAST week's classes versus this week's. Ever tried making a "nice" dinner when the crew is eating in shifts and you are picking up and dropping off children in cycles?

My plans went to hell in a hand basket. I forgot the orzo. I had to go to the store, twice, with my children.  I nearly got run over by a three hundred pound woman who had a fierce look on her face as she was barreling down the incredibly narrow aisles in the gourmet market. Enough said.

I overcooked my green peppers and onions. My husband said my dinner was "pretty good" as he picked out the kalamata olives from the orzo.

My class brought me my own weight in chocolate today as gifts.

I threw out my back two days ago.

I am so tired I want to cry.

Cupid's a lying hound...but he did bring pretty flowers, yesterday.

And I managed to fight a couple of women in the bakery department for the last two cannoli.

Hubby did pour the good wine while I whined about my afternoon.

And I got the most beautiful Valentine, ever...

Crossing the finish line...

My first half marathon medal!  I DID IT!

Six months of training. Six months of fundraising. Six months of pushing myself in ways I never dreamed possible.

Countless good wishes, cards and a music mix for good measure, to encourage me, to propel me to cross that line.

Sunday was race day. The ninth annual ING Miami Marathon.

I was nervous. I was excited. I was missing some pretty important people.

My mother in law was scheduled for her second to last chemotherapy Monday morning. My father in law was trying to figure out a way to get down the hours it would take to see me cross the finish line. I put my foot down.

My sister was going to bring my nieces at the crack of dawn, in that multitude of people, to see me cross the finish line. I put my foot down.

My brother and sister in law, so far away in distance, so close in my heart. Their card a few days before moved me to tears. Such powerful words written on such an innocent looking card.

I carried them all in my heart instead.

The night before, as my family and I sat amid over 200 other Team In Training runners, I looked over to my husband. The face that has mirrored my own happiness and sorrow for the last twenty years had eyes filled with tears, bottom lip trembling. When I whispered to him, asking him if he was okay, he held me close. His voice breaking with emotion, he said, "I am so proud of you."

I looked over to my sons as they sat with us. The faces reflected back my own excitement. Their smiles, lighting my way.

It was a restless night. Motherhood does not take a day off just because of a 13.1 mile race. I tossed and turned, worrying I would oversleep and miss the gun. But I would only oversleep if ever got to sleep, though.

In the still darkness of Sunday morning, my alarm went off. I rose, weary. I glanced at the sleeping men in my life, and knew that I could do it.

As I got ready at 4:00 am, I wrote my family an email. In part, it read:

Standing front of the mirror this morning, I do not recognize the woman staring back at me. She is dressed like an athlete. She is ready to undertake the most physically challenging event she could dream of. Yet there she is, and looking back at the last 6 months or so, I know that I could not have done this without any of you.

I did not recognize the face I saw. The face was confident, strong, athletically determined. The face showed none of the fear I felt within my own heart. The face showed preparation, an air of calm, and anticipation that I dared not feel.

Yet, it was my own face. My own eyes that would see the glorious sun come up on the MacArthur Causeway at 7:00 am. It was my face glistening in the heat of this beautiful morning, as my legs carried me, fueled by months of training, adrenaline, joy.

It was me.

During the race, my neighbor and I ran side by side. Much like the past six months, we were able to motivate and carry each other for 13.1 miles.

Throughout the race, there were hundreds of spectators, armed with beach chairs and homemade signs, cheering the brave souls that ran, walked, or hobbled by them. Countless, smiling faces, urging you to go, to run, to do better.

Seeing the kids at mile 11...

At mile 11, I saw my boys. John had gotten on the People Mover, and decided that he would be able to meet there and still have enough time to make it back to the finish line. How to describe the feeling when I saw my boys? When I saw my greatest cheerleader? I was afraid the emotions of the day would bubble to the surface, bringing me to my knees with over two miles to go...

The end came slowly. It seemed that every turn would bring the finish line. The split where the full marathoners came. For an instant, I thought of what that would be like. To complete 26.2 miles. I stayed on my own half marathon track.  I am not ready.  YET.

Racing towards the end...

The drum lines kept urging me on, with each beat pushing me a step or two closer to the finish.

I felt strong. I felt invincible.

And then, the cloud of orange and blue balloons, intertwined to create the arch I would run under. With a sudden rush, I felt myself run faster, harder, than I ever had in my life. I was there. I CROSSED THAT finish line RUNNING!


View of the finish line from our hotel room...

All the emotions I thought I was going  to feel never materialized. Instead, I felt like vomiting. I don't know if it was the strenuous exercise that I had just put my body through, the surprising heat that made its appearance halfway through the run or the fact that I REALLY needed fluids, but the tears I was sure I would have weren't there.

I received my medal. As I gazed at it, I thought of the past six months. I thought of the past 37 years. Of keeping myself within these self imposed boundaries. Of wanting more, of being afraid of trying things that scared me. And I thought to myself, from now on, that finish line means the beginning of being a tad bit fearless.

I called John to let him know I had finished. He told me the boys had seen my whiz by at the end.  We made plans to meet up. I called my neighbor, Sande who was just behind me, waited for her. We hugged each other, knowing we had done it together.

I searched for my family. When I finally found myself in my husband's arms, I felt the tears come. Tears of joy, of relief, of disbelief. Had I really done this? Was I really standing here, among all these people, celebrating this accomplishment?

Yes, I was.

And they were here with me, sharing every incredible second.

Even the ones I carried within my heart to cross the finish line...

There is no turning back.  I am changed in ways that I cannot put into words.  I am grateful to have been able to something for others, that helped me do something for myself.

A prayer for mercy...

Dear Lord,

Today, I ask you to be merciful. I know that I have some bad karma coming to me for years of giving homework to countless students, invoking the same misery I am experiencing right now to hundreds of parents over the last sixteen years. I know I have it coming. Times three.

Tonight, as I am sitting here writing in order to distract myself from my middle child, I pray for either strength or a quick death. Frankly, I cannot take anymore of the whining and complaining or inability to find anything in the book bag that is remotely related to homework. If it is death, please, make it happen NOW. It has been slow and painful enough.

Lord, if in your infinite wisdom you enlighten modern science in the cloning of humans, can I please be first to have one? So I can send her to drop children at tennis at differing schedules? So that I can have another making a dinner that my children will inevitably hate? So that I can perhaps get a massage, or, at the very least, a decent haircut and color? Right now, I would settle for a decent night's sleep or a solo trip to the bathroom.

And while I have your attention, did the garage door really need to cease functioning today? I mean, it has been nearly 12 years since we got it, but did it have to go today? When the entire week is filled with mindless and meaningless things that MUST get done...and when I have trash that needs to go out and have no other way to get it out? Since it's already busted, can I, at the very least, get the earliest, most convenient appointment for repair, without paying an arm and a leg?

Please, dear God, I know that the events of the last few hours are minimal compared to the crosses some people have to bear. Please, let my love for my children overcome the frustration and the feeling of wanting to pull out my already thinning hair straight out of my head as I am carried away to the funny farm. Let me remember how much I love them and so wanted to be a mother. Let those thoughts carry me through the next 14 years of schooling that lay before us.

Thanks for your time. I know you are Almighty. I know that you have my back. Just send me a sign so that I know that I am already on the life raft on this turbulent sea of motherhood.

Amen.

10 miles of me, my thoughts...and my legs running

As many of you who follow this blog know, I am training for a half marathon in late January.

For many of you who know me personally, you must know that Armageddon must be coming upon us rather quickly.

Because I am not an athletic person.

And because up until August of this year, only bodily fluids exploding out of my children's beings (or blood curdling screams), got my ass up and running in record speed.

But my neighbor, who is always full of ideas, decided that this would be a great challenge for us to undertake.

Fortunately, we are not training without serious help. We are raising money for The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and their affiliate Team In Training, which take a slug like me and makes them marathon ready.

How ready, you ask?

Ten miles in a little over two hours this past Saturday ready.

Yes. Ten miles. 135 minutes. This Saturday. And I am still upright.

At first, I thought my biggest challenge would be raising the $1700 for Leukemia and Lymphoma research. But, as of last month, not only had I reached my goal, I surpassed it.

Then came the REALLY early in the morning runs. We're talking 4:30 am people. And yet, I found that not only can I get up at that time, but I can actually run, if given the appropriate soundtrack, AND feel good for the rest of the day.

And even more surprising? When I don't get up at un-Godly hours to run a ridiculous distance, I feel TERRIBLE. I feel guilty for sleeping until the "late" 6:45 a.m. time.

But what I am enjoying the most on the mornings I run (O.K., besides bragging rights to my thoroughly impressed third graders) is the time to think, by myself, for a good hour.

Because even though a huge range of musical genres are blaring through my wireless headphones, my mind is still. I don't have a thousand jumbled messages getting crossed in transmission. Thoughts are not getting pushed aside by the day's impeding agenda.

It is impossible not to clear your mind when you run. Granted, I didn't run straight through for ten miles on Saturday. I did intervals of two minute, fast paced walks and one and a half minute runs. But when you are exerting that kind of force, you must focus on breathing, on moving one leg in front of the other, rapidly.

And with each breath, each foot in front of the other, I pushed myself to do something I never thought I could do. As I neared the final intersection before reaching our ending point, the smile on my face was huge. I knew I could do anything.

In January, I will run the ING Miami Half Marathon. I will have raised the most money I have ever raised; by myself. I will run for two and a half hours; I will cross that finish line. I will have time to think about the magnitude of what I am doing, and who I am doing it for. I will have done something solely for the good of others.

In February, I will run the Disney Princess Half Marathon. This will be just for me. I will run for two and a half hours; I will cross that finish line. I will have time to think about the magnitude of what I am doing, and who I am doing it for.

I will know that I am strong in body, not just spirit.

And I will have done something solely good for me.

This will be JUST for ME.

Lettuce wraps and entitlement

Over the weekend, my husband and I took the kids out for dinner after Mass. It had been an incredibly busy day, and frankly, I am getting kind of bored with making dinner every night. Seriously bored.

We choose a semi-fast Asian fusion restaurant, where we can order our children's Honey Garlic chicken without the honey or garlic. Any guesses as to what's left when you remove those two key ingredients? Chicken nuggets. With steamed white rice. I know.

We placed our order, and went to find a place to sit with our family horde. And there, we were met with the self serving, entitled older folks. Giving us the evil eye.

And I swear that my children were being good. No one was fighting, no one was whining about the chopstick clips, no one was upset about being hungry.

So I gave the evil eye back. They kept glancing our way, with tight frowns on wrinkled, sour faces. They got their bowl of wonton soup before us, even though we got our order in first.

Eventually, we got our soup. And our fabulous lettuce wraps. And that's when one of the entitled retirees snapped at the waiter, and me, as I sat gap-mouthed, astounded by her rudeness.

"You didn't order lettuce wraps, did you?" she asked accusingly.

"We most certainly did. Sorry." I answered smiling sweetly as I seethed.

THE NERVE! TO ACCUSE ME OF TAKING HER LETTUCE WRAPS!!! WHEN I ORDERED THEM!

She must have taken the hint. She mumbled something, half-apologetically, about us having ordered first. My husband and I exchanged puzzled looks.

How do people think that being that rude entitles them to any kind of special treatment? Why do these people feel that anything and everything that they want, they are entitled to?

Our mean neighbor and her entourage got their order messed up. The restaurant was so busy that the waiters failed to catch they incessant bickering over the order being wrong.

And us?

We enjoyed the rare instance in which we dined out and our children actually enjoyed their meal and each other's company. Hubby and I had a deep philosophical conversation about the Bill of Rights and separation of Church and State.

And you know what? I felt sorry for that group of people who sat a mere four feet away from our table. Because everyone is entitled to some happiness. And it was clear that these four people were not happy. Not because their food was wrong or because they were sitting next to young children.

Because they were failing to see that happiness is something that they could grasp for themselves. It was not the lettuce wraps that they ordered and did not come as quickly as they wanted.

It is in our grasp to live in the moment.

To relish and savor the tender morsels of everyday joy, instead of cultivating anger and anxiety.

On the way home, I thought of what these people must have endured in their lives. But, we all experience disappointments, sadness, anger, rejection, sickness... What makes people hold on to that yuck? So much so that it taints everything around them? How do we avoid becoming that person?

We experience it, but we don't have to hold on to it. We learn from it. We release it. We move on.

And when all else fails, we dig into those lettuce wraps, and perhaps, gloat just a wee bit...

Hey, I never said I was perfect!

P.S. A very special HAPPY BIRTHDAY goes out to the best dad in law anywhere, Granddaddy! So sorry the kids were sick this week and we missed out on celebrating with you! We love you and will see you soon!

Wrong again

After many a sleepless night, courtesy of my youngest son and his unwillingness to stay in his own bed, last night I collapsed. Too much drama in Florida last night and today, y'all.

The news made it seem like there was going to be some great flood today. I mean, the Today show had a correspondent in Ft. Lauderdale this morning. Were they expecting Noah to make an appearance with the ark?

Parents, students and teachers alike waited with bated breath to see if school would be closed today.

No such luck.

No such weather.

It was just a rainy day. But nothing gets Floridians in a tizzy and glued to their TV's faster than the thought of a tropical depression or storm.

We had five hurricanes in a two month period FIVE years ago. The news people need to eat, yo.

It must have been a REALLY slow news day.

Regardless, the storm never materialized. The traffic was nightmarish, particularly because when it is raining in Florida, people can actually get out and PUSH their cars faster than they are actually accelerating.

Traffic around the school? More of the same. God forbid that a child get wet, especially since they are not wearing a rain coat!

All day, in spite of the fact that I actually slept a full night's sleep, I just wanted to be home. In my bed. Watching movies that were not geared for children.

I missed not going out for my run/walks with my neighbor, as we train for a half marathon in late January. My legs, amazingly, ached for lack of exercise.

I have been a little bitchy. Little things have irritated my beyond belief, and I have found myself marveling that such stupidity abounds on Earth. For example, people who seem to forget the function of the right pedal in their car when it is raining outside.

But much like the Little Engine That Could, I did. I survived the craziness of this morning, watching my son struggle with what must surely be the strangest way a person has ever put on a raincoat. Survived running back out to the van to get Joshua's lunch with my broken crap-o-la umbrella and coming back to find Andrew still struggling. I survived crazy mothers driving their children to school, parent phone calls and emails. I even survived Math today (none of you will truly appreciate what a feat that was today) and rainy day dismissal, even finding four students that decided to do their own thing.

I even managed to get the kids to CCD (Catholic studies) on time, only to find it cancelled. And I was NOT even upset. And for you foodies that have been following my struggle to manage to recreate the Red Thai Curry from our favorite Thai place, I came pretty darn close tonight.

After all, tomorrow is another day. And just because I was pretty much wrong in my assumptions for what today would hold, I will not let that stand in the way of progress.

Tomorrow, I WILL run/walk my 4 miles at 4:30 am; I will get back in my groove, regardless of what the weatherman says.

'Cause really? What other job could you have and be wrong about 90% of the time and STILL be employed and listened to?

Oh, I forgot.

Motherhood qualifies for that category, no?

Scrambled eggs for brains...

Why is it that today, I found a bill that should have been paid two weeks ago? Or that I went to buy children's ibuprofen even though I had a forgotten, unopened bottle of it in the medicine cabinet? Or that I bought children's cough medicine in orange flavor, which my oldest son clearly detests?

Why is it that I went to work, regardless of the fact that I slept very little after my oldest complained of a splitting headache at 3 am? Or that I left the house without realizing I hadn't eaten breakfast or had not brought a protein bar with me to munch on during the drive to work?

Why is it that I scheduled a ENT follow-up on a day that I have an informational meeting for a recertification that I must begin this fall? Or that I can barely find the time to make, let alone keep, a hair dresser's appointment so that I no longer look like a graying version of Cousin It?

Why is it that regardless of whatever stupidity I find myself in, my loving husband can get a gleam in his eye, shake his head knowingly and smile as he says everything will be okay?

Why is it that the area formerly known as my brain now closely resembles and functions much like scrambled eggs?

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself...

Being a math teacher is hard. Being a math teacher in third grade is like growing teeth and THEN pulling them out. Being a math teacher in third grade with a new math series sucks rocks. SERIOUSLY.

Most kids begin third grade with an abnormal terror of all things mathematical. Apparently, the stigma of having to memorize your times table is a ghost that lingers past my own childhood and continues to haunt GENERATIONS of children. The fact that we have a state mandated test that determines your promotion into fourth grade does not help.

Our old math series was traditionally heavy handed with lots of computation skills, a fair amount of reinforcement exercises and plenty of opportunities to provide homework after good amount of practice. Basically, it did the job, had adequate opportunities to practice, and had a good amount of resources for remediation and challenges.

The new math series is a consumable workbook, which means you can write in it. And that pretty much sums up all that makes it great.

I REALLY hate the new series.

Don't misinterpret me. I did not love the old math series. But I knew it. I knew how to circumvent the obvious deficits of academic types who have never actually taught third graders. I knew when to strap on my boots when the skills to be taught were going to drive me to drink. I knew what concepts my kids would literally sail through.

With this series, I got nothing.

Except that the kids can write in it and instead of 3 GIGANTIC teacher's editions, I have six small, lightweight teacher's editions.

Not much of a selling point folks.

For you naysayers, there is a huge amount of deep psychological reprogramming that has to occur in third grade to not turn off kids to math. I remember constantly feeling stupid at the beginning, middle and end of every math lesson from Kindergarten through 12 grade. Every single one. I NEVER left my classroom feeling like it owned whatever we had covered. I hovered between treading water or drowning. And I cannot say it was my teachers' fault. They were good teachers, but every year I struggled so much that they focused on keeping me with everyone else, rather than finding out WHY I was so frustrated.

And for the first 13 years of my 16 years of teaching, I NEVER felt qualified to teach anything above first grade math. Because even as an adult, I was still afraid of math.

Then, I decided to teach third grade. And my administrators agreed it was time for a change. And for the first time in my life, I knew I had to be okay with math so that I could make sure no student ever walked out of my class feeling like I had for so many years.

I took that damn math book home over the summer and I taught myself all the sh*t I could not understand when I was in third grade. I started to see that there were patterns. That is really wasn't all that hard, if you were paying attention. That numbers, dare I say it, were actually pretty cool.

After discovering, albeit too late to do anything for myself, this new respect for math, I knew that I had the power to help my math haters reform themselves while they still could enjoy it. I vowed to make those kids who so closely resembled my former kid-self learn from my mistakes.

Was I not, after all, one of them?

The first year in third grade was rough. I had an intern the first quarter of the year. There were so many days I left school with bite marks inside my mouth from trying to keep myself from interjecting in her lessons. When she finally left, my real work began.

My students were timid, afraid of making a mistake, unwilling to let go of this fear. I vowed to do my best and promised them that if they paid attention and asked questions, success was theirs for the taking. I told them that if they didn't get it after holding up their end of the bargain, I would have to do a better job of explaining it.

It worked. Two years in a row. Glowing scores. More importantly, children who LOVED math.

Once they knew, they had nothing to fear anymore. They knew that they were more than capable.

Flash-forward to this year. A whole new crop of eager brains. A new math book.

A monkey wrench.

Our first math lesson was a disaster. I actually had one little boy start crying and tell me he was stupid. As I looked around the room, it seemed like there were many eyes teetering on tears as well. And then I wanted to cry. But more than that, I was pissed off. That this stupid book, written by people who had never met these kids were making this poor kid think he was stupid. Just like I thought I was.

And so we had a little talk. About people who write books that are designed to trip up kids. About how we are in this together. About how we were going to GPS anyone who was lost and help them find their way back.

We kept on it. In the midst of these past weeks, they tried to hide in their seats, behind their neighbor's head so that they could deflect my eagle eyes, searching for those who didn't want to be found. The last few weeks have been more than a little rough.

But we have persevered. We have hung on.

And today, my students actually felt ready to complete math problems on their own, without me holding their hands. I had students eagerly waving their hands, waiting to be called, instead of students with sullen, shifty eyes that beg not to be called upon.

Today, I had success. My kids got it.

But I will make a confession. Even though there was some deep psychological drama going on in that classroom for the last three weeks, my students owned it today. They proved to themselves that they are capable. And that is going to fuel the fire in their belly to continue to succeed.

And if I were the math problems in that sh**ty, new math textbook, I would be afraid.

I would be VERY afraid.

What doesn't kill you makes you crazy

The thing about parenthood is that many of us are duped into thinking our children will be different (in a better way, mind you) than other people's children. And while that may be true, more often than not, all children are pretty much the same.

As a teacher, I know this.

And as a teacher, I can tell you that I repeat myself constantly.

And as a parent, I can tell you that I repeat myself constantly.

Were you listening to me when I said that I repeat myself constantly?

While surely, you would think that constant repetition would cause death, of the slow and painful kind, I can assure you that it does not.

At least, I think it doesn't, because I am sitting here writing this blog post.

Maybe it's just REEEEAAALLLYYYY SLOW. And painful.

But I can tell with assuredness that repeating yourself will surely drive you crazy. You will repeat things to yourself often, mutter obscenities under your breath, and feel the need to repeat yourself to adults in frightening ways.

You find yourself using different vocal intonations, facial expressions, hand gestures (of the non-obscene kind for the minor set) and physical shenanigans, just to get your point across the FIRST time.

And then, you just give up.

You just keep saying the same thing, over and over, like a damned scratched LP.

It's enough to drive the sanest person nuts.

The repetition is not limited to the under 18 crowd, either. I am sure that there are several, special adult loved ones that require a repeat performance of what you just said before they even register that someone is speaking to them. Do I hear an AMEN, people?

If you think you can't repeat yourself one more time before you literally crack up, then you should try being a teacher. And then come home to school aged kids. And auditory impaired adults.

Yeah, good times.

So, let me just confess that there are days I wish I had a choice.

Because my first choice would be speech recognition and on command compliance of spoken request.

No, I am not taking prescription medication, but it is nice to dream, isn't it?

And for the record, I think there I times when I would choose death.

Going crazy ain't so much fun, you know?

Hey y'all, when I end up in the funny farm in my very own padded room, will one of you make sure that my straightjacket is nice and snug so I don't pull out my hair? Thanks!

Hey? Did you hear what I just said?