Bring...

Sunscreen, towels, chairs and gossip rags.

Toys, food, drinks, umbrella and kids.

Sunny days, rainy afternoons, hazy laziness.

Hoping the calendar brings summer soon...

Surrender

At the end of the day,

after homework, dinner and baths;

the battle begins; a hopeless dance.

Be productive in relative peace, quiet?

Drop everything , grab the neglected book ?

Run to undo the days dietary mistakes?

Or succumb to the inviting softness

of the freshly made, warm bed...

In hopes of a productive tomorrow

when I can read or run;

not surrender too quickly or soundly

as the white sheets beckon me tonight.

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Stop and go

Green light: GO!  Traffic, meetings, assignments.

Red light: STOP!  All I want is to stop

for a bit, so there is

fuel to go.  A moment to

set my eyes on Nature's beauty.

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An explanation to the long absence...

As you have noticed if you frequented among these parts, things have been amiss for the past few months. While I have posted every week through Six Word Fridays, even that has been difficult and has, often times, alluded to all that has transpired since late last spring.

Life happens. And usually not in the way or shape we would like it to.

And because all that has transpired in these past months has been difficult and painful, it would have made sense to write about it here; to make light of it, to poke fun at the situation I found myself in. To be witty.

But I couldn't. For the first time in a very long time, it was just too painful to write. I had no way of expressing all the sadness, frustration, and fear I was experiencing.

And if I put it in writing, it would be real. I desperately wanted it not to be.

As many of you know, my beloved mother in law spent nearly a year battling breast cancer. Our family weathered the storm of the complications, the chemo, seeing her frail and warrior-like. Little did we know that we were in for more. We had another scare in the summer, but by now, we were also seasoned warriors.

My uncle, who has no children and is a liver transplant recipient, had a MAJOR health crisis. In early May, he was whisked away by ambulance in the middle of the night, and began an extended stay in the hospital and later rehab (and later the hospital again) before he took up residence at the assisted living center where my mother lives in mid-August.

The process of dismantling a life is an arduous one. So much to become acquainted with, so much paperwork and legality, to make repairs on a home, pack it up, put it for sale. So much to be made responsible for, when you are already responsible for so much.

My boys and I, along with my sister and my aunt (my mother's older sister) spent our summer cataloging my uncle's items, making piles for the dump or charity, and packing his things to be moved into his new apartment. I cannot tell you what a comfort it was to see my boys helping us in any way they could. Whether it was trudging down the stairs laden with books, to packing and sealing boxes, to making lists of things to be done, my two older sons were workhorses last summer.

And it quite literally broke my heart to see them so hard at work, peering curiously at me as I often stood, bewildered with worry and anxiety in the middle of my uncle's rundown house, wondering how the hell I was doing this again.

That flurry of activity was during the day. At night, my sister and I would go see him at the hospital, often wondering what his prognosis was going to be, wondering how in the world we were going to handle all of this new responsibility when school started back. Somehow, we would manage.

We emptied his house, made it sellable, sold it, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he moved into his new place, somewhat healthy and begrudgingly happy.

In the midst of all this, my mother's physical therapist was concerned at the pain she was experiencing during therapy. She ordered a routine MRI and uncovered a huge mass on her stomach.

Welcome to Round 2.

We had no sooner finished dealing with the immediate needs of my uncle when my mother was diagnosed with a somewhat rare cancerous tumor on her stomach. Her surgery was successful in that it removed a 13 centimeter tumor. However, she spent the better part of a week in ICU , unconscious, when she experienced difficulty breathing on her own a day after the surgery.

More tests.

More worry.

Another tumor was discovered on her larynx.

One that was seen and commented on by three different doctors.

One that miraculously wasn't there when they went to biopsy on Halloween Day.

The hell that went through was nothing compared to the generosity of spirit of our family, friends and coworkers. I have never felt so much love and support in all my life.

I am happy to say that things have somewhat returned to normal. We had a peaceful Thanksgiving.

We had so much to be grateful for. So many lives saved during a course of 365 days.

I had my "normal" Christmas. The one I so longed for last year when my world was collapsing around me. I had all my folks. My mother in law. My mother. My uncle and my aunt. They were all alive. My handsome new nephew, my brother and sister in law. My sister and her family. Every single person who weathered the storms of 2011 with us. They were all smiling; happy and healthy; under one roof. My roof. Even writing this now, the words blur through the tears.

So you can imagine why I couldn't write. Too much. Too fast. It was exhausting to live it, overwhelming to even think about putting it out there.

The prognosis are pretty good all around now. My mother in law is doing better than fine. She is back to doing her thing, on her own terms, and the mischievous gleam in her eyes has returned.

My uncle in is dialysis three times a week, but now he has to deal with my sister and I. I think he is slightly pleased that things fell into place as they did. He seems happy and has adjusted well, considering.

My mother's latest PET scan came back clean. She is on a chemotherapy that was originally given to leukemia patients. Imagine my surprise when I discovered it was funded by the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, whom I have fundraised and run for since 2010.

I hope that I am back to this, my writing in my space, more regularly now.

I hope you understand my lingering absence.

I know that soon, I will be laughing again. And taking you along for the ride...

Making it count...

Making my list.

Checking it twice.

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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.

Drowning...

The past few weeks have come with their own set of issues and challenges. Between frantically teaching material before our state mandated exam and ending of the grading period, I am tired. Add renewing my national certification, my middle son's communion in the next three weeks, a family cruise (YAY!) and two birthdays and I am wiped.

Plus, I stepped on a scale the other day and nearly died. Not happy folks. So not happy that I rejoined Weight Watchers and I am now having to relearn all the points for my favorite stuff.

But what has me the most unhappy is the loss of my beloved Thai Red Curry Chicken. I am so sad. Do you have any idea how many points the amount of yummy Red Curry Chicken makes my heart sing? It would take DOZENS of consecutive half marathons to undo that damage...(sigh)

So, in many ways I am drowning. There are not enough days in the week. There are not enough hours in the day.

The only thing that is helping me get up out of bed without sobbing and downing serious amounts of pharmaceuticals is the idea that in a mere ten days, I will be surrounded by Disney magic.

On a ship.

With all my guys.

In the open waters of the Atlantic.

And if it gets too bad, I can always jump overboard.

Into a vat of luscious Thai Red Curry Chicken!

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.

Meet the parents...

A few nights ago was my school's Open House. For parents, it is the opportunity to meet your child's teacher, get informed about the year's goals and objectives, and get a peek at what your child does throughout the day.

For teachers, the day and night of Open House is an exercise in endurance and patience. And for me, Monday was an answered prayer for air conditioning. So once again, for the second day in a row, we headed over to our Media Center and hung out there, waiting for cooler days ahead.

That being said, we had about two hours to reconstruct the classroom and prepare for the meeting of the parents. And write letters, clean desks and take care of the fish tank that was orange, full of fish food the Boys Scouts had dumped into it a few days before.

Plus, I looked like a bum. I knew that I had a lot of cleaning up to do, so I wore crummy jeans and a polo shirt. My filthy hair, pulled back into a pony tail, I was a force to be reckoned with. And, I was about to make a first impression.

I met yet another Language Arts/Reading teacher who will be covering for my beloved co-teacher as she enjoys these last few weeks with her brand new, crawling baby girl.

Yes. On Open House Day.

At least I had the air conditioning going for me.

At the sound of the three o'clock bell, I ran out of school like a maniac, drove to pick up Joshua at school, came home, saw that my aunt had made it to my house okay, ordered pizza, left money for said pizza to feed the kids, jumped in the shower and managed to wash my tresses and shave my legs, put on one outfit, discarded it, put on a winner with coordinating accessories, did my hair, put on my face, kissed my kids goodbye as I barked orders and threats relating to homework and behavior. I made it on time for Andrew's Open House session, the one I stayed at for a total of 15 minutes before I had to head out to my room to prepare the laptop and projector. Thank goodness, John played the concerned, involved parent.

One of the things that I love about Open House is to find the faces of my students in those of their parents. It's almost like a game to me, to pick out the parents and match them to the kids. It is so interesting to see how much some kids look like one parent, or how certain features closely resemble their child's.

More importantly, it's a chance for parents to hear that no matter what, their kids are going to have a great year. That they are doing the best they can, and it is good. That they are not in this alone.

As a child, the thought of my teacher meeting my parents was terrifying. I was a good kid, a great student, but somehow, the thought of my two worlds meeting filled me with anxiety. As a teacher, it is a wondrous thing to be able to tell a parent that their child is doing well, that they are a joy to have in the classroom, that you are proud to be their teacher.

And so, for the sixteenth time in my career, I stood in front of anxious parents, made them laugh, made them think, made them smile.

After all that went on Monday, it was by far, the best part of my day.

A long day and weary body...

Not enough sleep, 4:30 am wake up time to walk close to 4 miles for training, fight horrendous traffic, students who don't want to work or are too afraid of making mistakes, parents who demand home work assignments but don't bother to make sure their "gifted" children actually complete it, a hubby who will be off on work related travels, tennis, offspring's' home work assignments and ensuing battles related to its completion.

Muscles ached, eyelids drooping, heavy with sleep and exhaustion.

Only one answer, really. Too tired to cry, although that would feel good. Too tired to write, even though words cannot replace the lost rest I can never seem to find. Longing for sleep.

And yet, I long for more days when the events don't always go as planned, but hold a certain kind of magic. In that you can overcome those things that should otherwise impede progress. That in spite of a long talking to, your students can still recognize a feeble attempt at a joke, and inevitable, surprise you with new knowledge, even if it's at the eleventh hour. For colleagues and their knowing smiles, for parents who do appreciate what you do, for your own children that confess their fears as you mention your own, their growing hand safely nestled in your own.

Looking forward to an extremely early bed time; a night's slumber that will restore and empower.

Wishing the same for you.

Motherhood's mortal sin

After a hard day today, I was dragging my butt by the time I got home. It was as though all the preparation and moving, spinning and walking, mothering and teaching had finally caught up with me. And because I was so tired, I committed the mortal sin of motherhood.

I attempted to take a nap.

I know, I know. I will plead temporary insanity. Last night's interrogation regarding the "missing" boxes was the straw that broke the camel's back.

When I got Joshua settled watching Little Einstein's (I know, I committed two mortal motherhood sins...I have no excuse) and made sure Matthew was working on homework, I asked Andrew to find something quiet to do. I laid down on the beckoning couch and closed my eyes....

Along with the strains of soothing classical music of Joshua's show, my mind drifted and I could feel myself dozing...and then, the strains of Joshua's very loud electric guitar that Santa, that old bastard, brought last Christmas.

"Guys, can you keep it down just a little. Momma's so tired," I begged.

"Sure Mommy," replied Andrew.

I closed my eyes again. Snoozing was calling, and I was more than eager to heed the call...Andrew's loud voice as he struggled to convince Joshua that he should get that damned electric guitar.

Now, I lost my temper.

"GUYS, PLEASE. Just a few minutes."

Silence.

Eyes closed. Exhaustion overwhelming me. And the phone rings. A telemarketer. Another remind to myself to re-register on the Do Not Call Registry. Why hadn't I done it yet?

Oh yeah. I work. For money and for the three kids that keep me around for food, laundry and errands.

I gave up my pursuit for a few minutes of sleep.

Rest assured that I recognized the error of my ways. I grumpily got off my couch and was in a vile mood as I prepared dinner for the hungry people who reside in my home.

My efforts were in vain. Apparently, my older son no longer approves of the frozen meatballs he would devour last year. Hubby was thrilled that our salmon was prepared at home, with a side of veggies.

I guess you can't please them all, huh?

As I banged and clanged in the kitchen, I understood why toddlers wake up a wicked kind of mean when their naps aren't long enough. And I remembered why trying to nap is motherhood's greatest mortal sin.

Because you can't get what you so desperately want and need. And since you can't get it, you usually end up even more bone tired (as if that was even possible!) than you were. Plus, you get a healthy dose of guilt for trying to do something so selfish and snapping at your kids for not making it possible.

Another one for my nomination of crappy mother of the year. Don't be jealous, y'all.

Back in the saddle again...

Unfortunately, the new school year is right around the corner. I hate to sound like a sourpuss, but, I am hesitant to be excited this year. I know once I get a whiff of brand new crayons and freshly sharpened pencils, AKA teacher crack, I will more joyful at the expectation of 38 new, eager little minds and personalities to match.

But I have been to work for two days already. Packing. Moving. Doing heavy lifting. Leaving my classroom and moving to a new one. One with little to no storage. One with a joke of a dry erase boards. One with tables so huge and heavy, it took four adult women to move.

I am grateful to God in heaven that I have been physically active this summer. Because if I hadn't, I would be in some SERIOUS pain. More than I am right now, as I clutch the aspirin bottle for dear life.

My co teacher is extending her maternity leave until November. A move I applaud loudly and joyfully. You only have your first baby once. Once the second comes along, you can't physically do all the things you did with baby two as you did with baby one. God bless her, she came in to help with the move. She has packed, shuttled, and escaped many a roach in the last couple of days.

My new co teacher is pretty awesome as well. She is a parent of a former student and was a full time teacher in a life before her three children. She is easing back into the maelstrom of education and I am thrilled that she was assigned to me. She and her kids, along with my two older boys and I, have spent the better part of two days hauling stuff into the universe's joke of a classroom.

Normally, I wouldn't care. But I am having serious issues. Placement of items, where to store books, if we will ever get to open the locked storage room that torments and jeers at us as we perspire and ache as we prepare.

It is funny. When school begins this year, I will have opened SIXTEEN school years. Every year, I feel the anxiety of the deadline of the first day of school as it looms. The unpacking, the sorting, the counting, the endless meetings and trainings, the relearning of colleagues names as we set sail into another year of adventure.

Regardless of how much time passes, the thrill never escapes me. It's as though all the bitching about the moving and changes is cathartic in a way that promises the gleam of my new crop of brains. Brains that I will mold and train, question and challenge, inspire and educate. That thrill of the first day, the eager but nervous smiles, the questioning looks to each other, combined with the heavenly smell of brand new everything is intoxicating.

And it will get me through the crap I will go through with my trusty entourage, the classroom fairies, if you will, to get everything just so for my new kids.

Another batch, another year, same saddle.

And although my legs, arms and back ache like hell, there is no place I would rather be.

Except, maybe, for my old classroom.

In search of...

Just recently, my sister and her husband decided that their little 2/2 love nest condo is no longer roomy enough for their ever exploring little girls. They just got a pre-approval letter from a mortgage company, so the search is on.

They are not too particular about what features they want in their potential new home. A nice yard, a certain location, at least three bedrooms, two baths, and a two car garage. They assumed that they would be able to purchase a little more home than they could have two years ago, given the flush of foreclosures and short sales in the South Florida area.

What they did not count on is the squalor these homes are in...They don't call them short sales for nothing, people.

Angie and I have spent the last two days with the five kids meeting real estate agents all around town, in joyful hopes of finding "the one." If you have ever tried to do anything with children, then you understand that it is the equivalent of walking underwater with 30 pound deadweights around each leg. Toddlers and other assorted young children should never, ever be taken on such an endeavor...

But I digress.

We have seen a kinds of gems in the last two days. Needs TLC is realtor speak for get ready to unload big bucks to make the Health Department award a certificate of occupancy. We have seen kitchens that would make any of us healthy eaters into anorexics. Bathrooms? Ever feel the urine creep right back into your bladder in a really filthy public restroom? Same feeling. And the carpets? YUCK. I felt like disinfecting my shoes before I walked into my own home after viewing some of the properties. Missing cabinet doors, non functioning central air conditioning units, suspicious water damage in corners, cracked toilet tank tops, shoddy enclosures in garages to augment living space, secret hair salons at home equipment and really questionable decorating choices. I think that the paint job in the master bathroom in the last house we saw today actually made me lose some of my vision. It literally burned my eyes.

The worst is when the owners are on the premises when you are viewing their homes. They either run for the hills (or in this case, the intense Florida heat of their "glorious backyard") or they stick around and help point out the upgraded Benjamin Moore paint that was obviously applied by a five year old, or tell you that they have taken their wonderful front loading washer and dryer to their new home. Thanks.

Even worse is how people fail to make their homes a little easier on the eyes in order to facilitate the sale. Really, do potential buyers need to stumble over your open luggage at the top of very narrow stairs and see that your packing skills match your non-existent housekeeping abilities? Or, how about making the bed if you know the realtor is bringing somebody by? Wash the dishes in the sink? Run a vacuum cleaner, perhaps? I don't think lived in should look trashed. I have seen some mighty messy places in the last 48 hours. My own home with my clutter would make Martha Stewart proud.

We have made realtors very nervous as they see us unload from my sister's van like clowns climbing out of their little car. They smile nervously, clear their throats, and clearly don't know how to proceed. Sometimes they can be very gracious and kind, offering to watch the five children while you have a quick look-see in the master bathroom. Sometimes, they curse under their breath when the security guards in these gated communities won't let them in after 45 minutes of pleading, harassing and threats. Sometimes they act aloof, like they are doing you a favor by showing you places that truly should be condemned by the Health Department. I guess it takes all kinds.

Then they try to educate you on what the procedure is for a short sale. Condensed version:
So, what you're saying is, we are going to make an offer on this heap of concrete blocks with a roof on it. The bank is going to decide if the outrageous amount of money they are asking for is enough for us to take it and gut it to begin again. And they can take months to decide. Great. I think I am ready for my lobotomy without anesthesia. That is one of the many services you provide as well, no?

Angie and I will continue to do the preliminary looking for the next couple of weeks, shrieking or napping toddlers and all.

But, I think that if she finds the "perfect home" within her price range, she owes me a drink.

Or two.

And definitely some disinfectant.

Table for one at the Pity Party

Oh, people, it has been quite a week. Between the Money Pit, my three year old's constant vacillation between "I want to/I don't want to" and the older two boys constant fighting and bickering, I think I would like to be in a nice, quiet padded room.

Sure, I am off from school. I am down one full time job. But honestly, there have been a couple of times this week when I have snuck off to the closet for a quiet, desperate sob.

This is why we aren't cool as parents.

Perhaps it is my own fault. Because I planned for doctor's appointments this week, anticipating that it would basically suck, but after the week was over, no more constraints from the appointments. Because I went to clean up that darned apartment to FINALLY get it rented and I found yet more water where there wasn't supposed to be any. Maybe it's because my three year old can't make up his mind one way or the other about anything. Maybe it's because I am tired of running interference with the older two.

Regardless of whatever the cause, I am tired. Drained. Frustrated. Angry. Sad. Anxious. Fed up.

Whenever Joshua pulls the standard "But I don't want to," I want to jump up and down like Rumplestilskin and have a holy fit. I don't want to deal with a house in need of repairs. I don't want to hear my children fighting. I don't want to spend day in and day out cleaning after people, waiting for Joshua to use the potty, waiting for the plumber that doesn't show up, the realtor who won't call, the messes that don't get cleaned up.

And don't even ask what it is I do want, because right now, I don't even know.

But I do know what I don't want.

I don't want to feel this tired, this frustrated right now. I don't want to holler at my children because they won't listen to me. I don't want to send Joshua to the potty, only to find him standing in front of it, his pants drenched in urine.

There is no magical wrap up here today. No wise words of lessons learned.

Just one tired, frazzled mother of three boys, sitting at a table for one at the Pity Party.

Breathe in, breathe out...

After way too much time away from the gym, I recently snagged a really good deal and switched and FINALLY went today for the first time. I was excited to go, mainly because my neighbor is a member there and a exercise fanatic, so I know she will drag my pathetic ass more often than I will want.

Last night, as we made plans for the logistics, we decided on a Pilates class. Now, I am no exercise guru, but I thought that it would be easier than a traditional aerobics class and FOR SURE easier than a spinning class, especially after a self-imposed sabbatical from any exercise.

Hey, I hear you guys giggling out there. Not nice to make fun of the out of shape, have no idea what Pilates really entails lady. Not nice at all.

We got there early, and my neighbor showed me around. We decided to do some cardio work while we waited for the hour long class to start. By the end of 15 minutes on the treadmill, I was out of breath and determined not to let myself go so long between strenuous exercise again.

I saw our instructor walk in. A small older woman. Seemed like she couldn't do much damage.

She kicked my ass.

But I was proud of myself. I didn't cry out in pain when I made my body do all those twisty moves. I didn't walk out when I was made to hold a squat for WAY longer than it would take me to pee. And I didn't hobble too much when I walked out AFTER the class was over.

But I did wish I had taken some aspirin before heading out to the gym this evening.

That being said, after a stressful couple of weeks and the endless anticipation for the end of the school year to come (just 3 more student days after tomorrow, but who's counting, right?), I totally needed to focus on how I can make my body as strong as my mind. I totally needed to see what I could do when faced with a physical challenge.

I totally needed to focus on just breathing.

I did it. I breathed in, I breathed out.

When I inhaled, I felt the strength within myself. That which helps me rise to challenges, keeps me going in seemingly helpless situations, maintains me in a relatively positive state of mind and spirit.

When I exhaled, I felt the weakness in me leave the confines of my body. All that makes me anxious, preoccupied, distant, sad, angry and frustrated. All that keeps me from functioning at my full potential.

When you are focused on breathing, there is no time for nonsense. You are doing something that is vital to your existence. Instinctive, primal, necessary.

It was just the reminder I needed today. And when I hobbled out of the exercise studio like a cripple, I felt free of what the anxiety and stress had done to my body prior to this class. I felt loose, relaxed, deliciously tired and achy.

And it was good!

Taking it off...

It seems that my mind is just as tired as my body.

As I sit in front of the computer monitor, the screen remains blank.

It mirrors what is currently playing in my mind...nothing.

It is a weekend designated for remembering our fallen soldiers.

They will never have the opportunity to be with their families in this lifetime, to enjoy their company, their laughter.

But I do.

So I will do just that.

I will be back on Tuesday. Hopefully with a mind filled with words. A body that has rested.

And a heart filled with sun-warmed memories...

Happy Memorial Day Weekend, everyone!

Please, PLEASE, tell me NOW!

For weeks, rumors have been swirling. Anticipation was at an all time high. And when we got word that that the news we had been so anxiously anticipating was in the building, there was a mad rush to the source.

My class sat for the state mandated test in mid March of this year. We worked, prepared, drilled, prayed, cried, made concessions, timed, cried some more, found our happy places, and spent many sleepless nights wondering how else we could prepare these children.

In the days leading up to the test, I wondered how the children would react to the test. Would they feel confident? Would they spend the majority of the morning keeping themselves from emptying the contents of their stomachs onto the test? Would they find peace in knowing that we had worked their butts off? Would they feel prepared?

Those questions have been dancing around in my little old head for the last eleven weeks. And even though my own nine year old son sat for the same exact test, I was less worried about him than I was about the children I teach.

Yesterday afternoon, third grade teachers caught wind of the scores. They descended on the main office like hungry vultures.

But everyone was told that we would be told today.

This morning, as I applied my face, I thought twice about wearing mascara, lest I turn into a raccoon upon learning the scores. I decided to live dangerously and made my lashes a little thicker and darker.

Upon getting to school, unloading stuff from the car and taking my junk upstairs to my classroom, I returned to the main office. Armed with my class list and a firm affirmation of NOT walking out without knowing how my children scored, I approached my principal.

As she beckoned me into her office, my co-teacher and I stood, ready. With each name that I said, the scores I heard were just music to my ears. Name after name, reading and math, those scores were worth EVERY single drop of sweat that been exuded over the length of the school year.

The numbers brought uninvited tears.

Tears of joy, relief, pride.

Damn mascara...damn raccoon eyes...

And the tears really flowed for the math scores of some students who had walked into my classroom, terrified of math. Those I had coaxed out of that fear, those who I had demanded so much from. Those that many a time during the school year reminded me of myself at that age. 

So scared, feeling stupid as the teacher would explain concepts and I lagged further behind everyone else. 

The ones I vowed to reform from math-haters to math lovers.

Those students were the ones that scored the highest on the math. I thought of their reaction when I told them what they had earned. I thought of how they had proven to themselves that they COULD do it.

Because they didn't just score what they had to in order to pass.

They went above and beyond.

And my students' reaction this afternoon was everything that I had hoped for during those dark days of preparation. Their eyes grew wide with disbelief. The uncertain looks were replaced with wide, confident, toothy smiles.  They asked to look at them again, perhaps to convince themselves that their eyes were truly not deceiving them.

I am not a braggart. But I am so proud of those children. I am so proud of the determination, consistency, effort and growth they have shown throughout this school year.

And I am SO relieved that the State agrees with me.

And so, for the rest of today, I felt drained.

More than what a teacher typically feels at this point of the school year.

Because you cannot hope and work so hard without giving of yourself.

And I gave.

And it was worth every bit.

***By the way, my son performed just as well as my high achieving students!  Happiness and pride all around!

Storm clouds threatened...

Today, storm clouds threatened. I listened.

No rush to shuffle children to and from tennis.

No scrambling at the supermarket with three children in tow.

No coming home to pot and pans demanding to be put to use.

Storm clouds threatened. I listened.

Stayed at home. In quiet chaos.

Warmed up leftovers to feed out bodies, nourish my soul with rest.

Children finished homework.

Kitchen picked up.

Children bathed and reading in bed.

Mama bathed and reading on the couch.

Today, the clouds threatened, but meant no harm.

I listened, and I was at peace.

Making lemonade...

Sometime life hands you lemons. Lately, my lemons have been thrown at me. Hard and with direct aim. But I am a firm believer in seeing things in a positive light, despite the circumstances. You make lemonade with lemons, but lately, Mama needs something with a little more, um, substance.

As you get older, you wise up on how to deal with certain issues and certain people. You might smile and move along with some, as you are gritting your teeth to keep from yelling obscenities. Others, you coax until you get the desired results. Others, still, require a heavy hand. This week, I think I have run the gamut.

I have always thought of myself as a people person. I mostly enjoy being around people, talking with them, finding out what makes them tick.

But I think I need a break. I want a time out.

This week, I have organized events for the teachers at Joshua's school, sat in board of director meetings at said preschool, dealt with issues with students, prepared end of the year documents, continue awaiting test scores, taught long division with remainders, administered more end of year testing and dealt with issues with my own, birthed children: mainly, incomplete class work assignments.

It makes Mama thirsty for something other than lemonade.

A couple of days ago, what I really wanted to do was have a full fledged temper tantrum. I have seen enough in my time to know how to throw a good one. Somehow, I didn't think that I would get what I wanted.

And what did I want, you ask?

For adults to play nicely. For adults follow through when they are supposed to, not make commitments to things they have no intention for following through with. To be, you know, adults.

I am a pretty tolerant person. I can deal with people behaving badly. I taught Kindergarten for 10 years, ya'll. I know how to handle "problems."

But the amount and caliber of the "problems" are not laughable. They are not something you can just shrug your shoulders at and say "whatever" to. They are mean. They are ugly. And I am tired of drinking the lemonade flavored Kool-Aid.

So, what to do, you ask?

Well, I am looking forward to unwinding a bit this weekend. My youngest niece's birthday party is on Saturday morning. I know, it might be more fun to visit a sweat-shop, and the temperatures might actually mimic one since Florida has now begun what we refer to as Hellish Heat.

Regardless, I have big plans for after the party, mainly, getting everyone fed, bathed and in bed as soon as it is feasible. After that, I plan to do the same for myself.

'Cause Mama's tired.

And when Mama's tired, there are no good times to be had.

So, I continue to gather the lemons, by the truck load.

But something's got to give.

All those damned lemons need to be immediately traded in for limes.

So that I can at least make a decent margarita instead of sipping on that insipid lemonade.