Five for Five: Change

It seems like an eternity since I sat here, in this place, writing about my life.  A year ago, I was working on recertifying for National Board for Professional Teaching Standards and was knee deep in the aftermath of birthdays, a cruise, a communion, state testing and finishing up that damn box to send away.  But I had no idea how many things would change in next 12 months.

My unmarried, childless uncle had a MAJOR health crisis that landed him in and out of hospitals and rehabilitation facilities for the better part of three months.  My sister and I, with five kids in tow, had to clean up his mess.  It took us from May through December to get everything straightened out: from housing to finances, legal aspects to just general " you're going to be okay, okay?" stuff.  A summer from hell would be a very pale description of what those months entailed.  In the midst of all these changes, I had no words for this space.  That was the hardest part of the change, and the one I found the most difficult to swallow.

In the fall, my already frail mother was diagnosed with an incredible rare form of stomach cancer.  Her successful surgery had major complications that landed her (and us) into ICU for a week.  The drain of this next challenge, and the physical changes my mother would now be faced with in her recovery made it impossible to sit in front of the computer and write.  Six words was all I could manage, some days with incredible difficulty.  Again, I would look at my blog, which had once been this source of incredible pride, as something I had abandoned because of life.  And if I wrote of these changes, they would be really real.  And even though I was living through them, I was not really ready to accept them.

The good news: everyone is okay now.  We've experienced some hiccups, but nothing more hair-raising than that.

The real news: Something in me finally clicked and made ME change.  Not in some wild, crazy, I am going to run away and join a circus kind of change.  But for someone like me, who changes at a turtle's pace,  this is BIG.

I've decided that getting older is fine.  It's better than the alternative.  And I want to be one badass old lady and give my kids years of endless  memories.  I want to get even and spoil the hell out of my grandchildren.  I want to get those kids riled up, sugared up and indignant that their parents don't let them get away with shit, and when it hits the fan, I want to climb into my two-seater convertible and drive off into the sunset, waving and blowing kisses to my angels,  planning my next visit.

I've decided to welcome the teeniest of wrinkles that now embrace the outer corners of my eyes when I smile or laugh too hard.  I will not find the grays that now spot more areas of my scalp.  I will thank the Lord above that I have never had to endure chemotherapy and hair loss at a young age like some of my friends.  I have earned every line, wrinkle and gray hair.  They are medals of honor.  The chest heading south is another story, but hey, that's why we have underwire, padded bras, no?

I am TRYING so VERY HARD to change my mothering.  By saying yes more when I can.  By living in the moment more.  By realizing that this is it.  My oldest is on the cusp of adolescence.  My baby is starting kindergarten.  THESE are the best times.  Right now. 

I am learning to be who I was meant to be, who I want to be.  Not a preconceived notion that I must act this way or another because I am a mother, a wife, a teacher.  I am authentic.  I should act as such.

The hardest changes are those affecting my children.  Each one of them is changing, morphing into these incredible people that can be alternately incredibly sweet or defying difficult.  Their physical changes as they mature are hard to witness as a mother who loved the tiny baby stage.  Their emotional growth is difficult to keep up with, as I alternate between goddess and devil's mistress.  Growing up is hard.  For kids.  For parents.  But oh, what a ride!

The biggest lesson I've learned this year is that change comes, whether you are ready or not.  It sometimes helps not to be so dead set against it.  It also helps immensely if you have people around you that love you and are willing to assist you.  It is extremely important to value the ones you love (and generally make you seven kinds of ape-shit crazy) when you have no crisis at hand, so you are ready for the crisis when it comes.  And people, it ALWAYS comes.  Trust me.

Unexpected Joy

Piles of boxes have surrounded me

All summer long, in many forms.

Ten long weeks. Five longer days...

Checklists miles long, endless errands run.

Time shrinking away as I prepare:

my mind, my home, my room;

for a new crop of brains, smiles.

The greatest unexpected joy this week:

mountains of empty boxes, abandoned outside

the gleaming neatness of my classroom.

Tasks accomplished, tools ready, tasks completed:

my mind, my home, my room;

awaiting my new students with joy,

with unexpected ease, speed and enthusiasm,

even after seventeen years of unpacking!

Unexpected insights, visitors?  Unexpected news, joy?  Share with us!  Visit Melissa and find out about Six Word Fridays!

Crossing the finish line

It all started with a dare.

Endless training: early mornings, late nights.

Calloused feet, sore legs, rickety knees.

Questions, answers, gear, fuel, hot showers.

One cold January morning, I waited.

Nervous, anxious to start, heart pumping.

The gun, the rush, the race.

My face greeted by cold air,

my feet effortlessly doing what I

could never do as a child.

My boys waiting at Mile Ten,

cameras in hand, tears flooding me,

the end so very near now.

As the sound of pounding drums

greeted my last turn, I rejoiced.

I caught my breathe, geared up

and made my legs go faster.

Thirty-seven years. Six months. Three hours.

The sight of that finish line

is something I will never forget.

I will never underestimate myself again.

Ever crossed the line?  Tell us about it!  Visit Melissa at Making Things Up to find out more about Six Word Fridays!

Jumping back in...

It has been a while since I was faithful to this blog. It seems that the pressures of motherhood, work and family responsibilities have swallowed up whatever energy, inspiration or ability to write these past few months. I have felt a constant struggle to force myself to sit and write, yet, what would be the point if what was out there was crap.

The last day of school was last Thursday. Life has not slowed down. But enough is enough. I have all but abandoned writing. And it's not fair.

But the writing isn't the only thing I abandoned.

Five years ago, I decided to face my greatest fear: learning to swim. My two older boys were learning how to swim. Andrew thought it was the most unfair thing in the whole world, especially since his mom didn't know how to swim. At 33 years old. With two kids. So the sass of my son made me get out of my comfort zone and learn. For a while. Until I got pregnant with Joshua and found my out.

My parents never thought my sister and I really needed to learn. Neither one of them were strong swimmers. For a short time, when I was about 3 or 4, my mother would let me go with an older neighbor to his neighbor's pool. I was terrified, but eventually, I looked forward to going. Until he got sick and eventually succumbed to lung cancer. My sister was the daredevil. When our next door neighbors finally had completed their pool, Angie got on the slide, and just began to swim. She was a fish.

When I had my boys, I was always fearful of them being in the water. Because deep down inside, I knew that if they were in distress, I would not be able to save them. They fought me on those swimming lessons. I stood my ground. They are excellent swimmers and now take lessons to improve their endurance and strokes.

Now, I am not learning to swim because my children need me to. Now, I am learning for me. Because it's about time. I am 38 years old. It's time to jump back in.

There are no more excuses.

I have run two half marathons in the last six months. I teach. I have dealt with a wide range of fail issues and caring for elderly family members. I have THREE boys, dagnamit. I can do this.

So yesterday, after dropping the older boys at their tennis lesson, I got back in the pool with an instructor. All decked out in my swimmer's cap (just because I'm doing this doesn't mean I have to have bad hair at the end of the summer), surrounded by toddlers learning to swim with another instructor.

Much like last time, there are two other ladies learning to swim with me. We smile at each other, encourage each other, talk about other challenges we have overcome in between learning how to breathe and kick underwater. There is a certain camaraderie in knowing that you are not alone.

Yesterday was not as hard as five years ago. My memory of almost drowning sixteen years ago seems far away, a lifetime ago. That scared girl cannot live within the body of this woman who has overcome so much.

Yesterday, I put my head under the water, and clenched my eyes, fumbling towards the surface to breathe, terrified as I opened my eyes as I surfaced, gasped, went back down.

Yesterday, as the instructor stood in the pool, coaxing what he knew I could do, I caught a glimpse of Joshua, standing near the pool, looking at me. As I looked at my son, I saw my husband. I was surprised, as I thought he would not be home until after the 30 minute lesson, in time to pick up Matt and Andrew from tennis 30 minutes later. He sat, watching me overcome my fear.

Yesterday, when I slid underwater, I opened my eyes and saw the clarity of the water. I turned my head, took in air, and stuck my head back under. I felt my body glide, arms rotating, legs kicking. When I reached the wall, I saw my son's smiling face and knew I was back.

Have you ever had a fear that seemed insurmountable? Were you able to overcome it? How do you cope with it?

Promises kept...

In spite of the remarkable odds,

they tenaciously overcame all the obstacles.

They let themselves be cheered on,

taught to succeed, groomed for greatness.

They learned, practiced. They whined, complained.

We celebrated small victories, smoothed bumps

that lined the long road ahead.

In the background, silent prayers whispered;

parents and teachers inviting triumph in.

Today, the news your teacher awaited

finally arrived. Congratulations received, knowledge confirmed;

to know how far you've come;

to know how far you'll go.

You promised to do your best.

I promised to bear witness all year

to growth: physical, emotional, spiritual, academic.

A promise worth keeping, working towards.

What are you keeping?  What have you kept?  What's worth keeping?  Check out Melissa at Making Things Up and find out about Six Word Fridays!

Wisdom

Knowledge is power. Wisdom; a gift.

Long awaited, hard won, scarcely used.

Bestowed only when your age guarantees

That it will be applied judicially,

When necessary, with compassion, for good.

Wisdom, like memories, is for those

who have treasured life; well lived.

Have some wisdom to share?  Visit Melissa at Making Things Up and try your hand at Six Word Fridays!

Wonder

I wonder how you see me

each day I walk in, ready.

I wonder if you all know

how much I worry over you

as I prepare each lesson, carefully.

I wonder if you can see

how much I admire your eagerness,

and how it feeds my soul.

I wonder how you will remember

our short time together; this year.

I wonder what will stand out

in the memories of your childhood.

I wonder if you will still

see me with the same eyes

when you are an adult yourself.

And if you will smile remembering

our time shared, these precious days,

and wonder how I am doing...

What makes you wonder...Head over to Making Things Up and find out more about Six Word Fridays!

'Cause I can...

On Sunday, I was a Princess. A Princess who awoke at 3:00 am, donned her hot pink, glittery headband, a pink tutu, and a killer pair of compression sleeves.

On Sunday, I participated in my second half marathon, ever. Just a month shy of my first.

If I was excited about the first one, I was more than a little nervous about this one. I was worried I would oversleep like I had for the few runs we had done in the last two weeks. I fretted over the weather. I worried about the lack of training because of my neighbor's injury after the marathon last month. I wondered how my husband would handle the three kids without me and venture in the Spectator sections with countless other husbands and children at Epcot.

I worried for nothing.

My neighbor and I did not oversleep. We made it to the buses in plenty of time. I met up with Liz, from ...but then I had kids, who also happens to be my son's teacher. I cannot tell you how happy I was to see at least two familiar faces in that multitude of estrogen.

The day was warm. The weather was perfect. My husband fared well, as he is now a seasoned expert at maneuvering large crowds with small children. My lack of training was a non-issue, since I virtually made my same time in spite of posing with Disney characters and NUMEROUS potty breaks... (I won't even tell you how un-Princess like it was to go potty in a portable toilet with a tutu...)

And I had a marvelous time. For a little while, I was Princess Maria. I was living the fairy tale I wish I would have had the courage to attempt to live 15 years ago. Or even ten years ago. But I am definitely living it now.

There was no overwhelming urge to vomit when I crossed the finish line this time. As I looked around at the cheering crowd, knowing that my guys were somewhere out there in that sea of people, I was filled with awe that I had come this far. That I was still standing. That I was still running.

This time, when I crossed the finish line, there was pride. There was joy. There were tears.

And yes, I ran in that tutu for 13.1 miles. And I felt every bit a princess. Even if it was for one day.

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.

Anticipation

Crossing the finish line...
Turkey Trot, Thanksgiving Day 2010

About six months ago, with a mere suggestion and an urge to do something different, I decided to start training for a half marathon. I have never been athletic in my entire life. I thought I could help out a worthy cause and challenge myself out of the tightly drawn box I had created around myself.

Little did I know what these six months would bring.

And how that decision would truly challenge me in ways yet unknown.

I did not know the strength I held within myself. I did not know that I could train my body to raise at un-Godly hours, in equally un-Godly temperatures (no eye-rolling Mid-Westerners and North Easterners. 40 degrees is COLD in Florida!)

But now, the half marathon is a mere six days away. I am nervous. I am excited.

I am changed.

I set out to do something I thought was impossible six months ago. The thought of raising over $1700 was terrifying. The notion that I could make my legs run for 13.1 miles was inconceivable.

Yet, here we are. Nearing the end of one goal, embarking on the start of other ones.

One half marathon in six days. A 5k in two weeks. Another half marathon four weeks from now. And plans for yet another half marathon before the end of the year.

Yet another piece falls in place in this puzzle that is my life.

Had I not had this all encompassing task, I surely would have handled my dear mother in law's cancer with a bit less humor and a whole lot of anxiety. At least for me, nothing makes me feel better and change my perspective than keeping busy, preferably with something such as this, that makes me oh-so uncomfortable, AND helps others.

So dear readers, I am in the final countdown. I am mentally preparing packing lists, have decorated my team shirt and am constantly encouraged by three little guys who totally rock my world. Those three little guys who make me want to work harder at being the person they think I am.

Slowly but surely, I am getting there.

Hopefully, I will cross that finish line Sunday morning without dissolving into tears, with a time that I can be proud of. And then, I can take the next step, into the next chapter, knowing that I can do just about anything.

Chilly weather, a good cry and a bowl of chili

We had our first cold snap this weekend. For Floridians, the first sign of cold weather sends us into a frenzy. We blow out our arsenal of winter clothes at the first drop of the mercury. We are convinced that the colder weather will decidedly bring on pneumonia in our children, therefore, they walk around closely resembling Ralphie's little brother from A Christmas Story.

Seriously, folks. The low was 55°.

I was finally beginning to feel better after the crud, but I had not trained during the week because I had been feeling so lousy. Saturday, I feared, was a day of reckoning. And cold weather to boot.

For the most part, the run was good. It was short by weekend training standards. Only eight miles compared to the 10 of a few weeks ago. It was cumbersome to run with a light jacket wrapped around my waist, but I was okay.

Until the last 2 miles. My right hip started acting up. I don't know if it was the cold, the lack or runs during the week or if I hadn't stretched enough. We had a slight wind going on the way back on our route, so it felt as though I was working harder to move. I was miserable. I ran, but at shortened time intervals. I finished, happy to be back to doing something I never thought I would enjoy and stretched out, thinking about all the stuff that was waiting for me when I returned home.

On Saturday mornings, after the group reassembles upon returning from our run, our team captain holds a clinic about upcoming topics related to training. We go over our fundraising efforts in our fight to cure Lymphoma and Leukemia. We also have a Mission Moment, where a survivor comes to speak to us about their story in fighting blood cancer.

The Mission Moment did me in this week. This man had fought Lymphoma for four years. When he was diagnosed, he was at Stage 4, and given less than two years to live. As he related his journey, and his medically impossible recovery, the tears were flowing.

The whole weekend, I was in a heightened weepy state. I don't really know why, but this man's story, his subsequent recovery and renewed sense of his life's purpose was the catalyst for many a tear shed this weekend.

Today, even bigger news. Our friend's daughter, who has been battling an incredibly rare brain tumor reached another incredible milestone. Her MRI came back clean. This precious three year old has endured brain surgery to successfully remove the tumor, months of chemotherapy, weeks of relentless radiation and her miraculous recovery continues.

What do these two stories have in common? Incredible human warrior spirits and immeasurable faith, in the face of insurmountable circumstances.

It was a welcome change to go back to work today, after the amount of exercise my tear ducts got this weekend. Somehow, working with my students, hearing their chatter, helping them through their obstacles is a really good way to get through whatever ails you. After a long day, I headed home to the cacophony of tennis lessons, cooking dinner, trading children in said tennis lessons, homework, antibiotics, baths and bedtime.

On the menu for dinner tonight? Turkey chili.

Because, sometimes, "chilly" weather, a good, long cry and a bowl of chili makes everything okay.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Holding on, letting go

Much of life is learning when to hold on, learning when to let go. For some of us, that lesson is especially hard, particularly when it comes to family. All too often, we end up holding on to the stuff we should be letting go, and letting go of the stuff that truly matters.

When it comes to parenting, it is much easier to hold on than to let go.

Joshua is coming into his own. No more potty accidents, he can wipe his own ass, and after a major back pack packing boot camp last night, he was able to pack up his nap items by himself. For the last few mornings, Joshua has been a fountain of love. Hugging, kissing, flashing those sweet eyes and chirping in his sweet toddler voice. The letting go has been a challenge, to say the least.

I am happy that he is becoming more self sufficient. But I am a little sad too.

Because my babies are growing up. And as they depend less on me, I find myself wondering how my role as a mother is changing. Don't misunderstand. As much as I loved that newborn stage, where they snuggled and nursed, it was EXHAUSTING. Three times over. And the stages that came after that were no easier. It was hard physical labor, constantly second guessing yourself, never knowing if what you were doing was right or wrong. Wondering when this tiny person would be able to tell you when they felt bad, what hurt, if what you are doing is helping at all.

Tough days. Rewards in gas induced smiles, outstretched, fat arms reaching for you. Sloppy kisses and cooing.

And life goes on. Sloppy kisses make way to grunts of recognition, excited tales of adventures at school. Hand holding at the grocery store parking lot. You take what you can get.

As your children get older, the challenges come in different forms, and you struggle with the decisions you make. Your brain knows the decision is a right one, your heart has a hard time believing it.

Just recently, John and I decided it would be good for Matthew to join a Tween Group at the church where Joshua goes to school. It meant a big deal to me that he try it because he would be able to reconnect with some preschool friends that attend different elementary schools. It meant that he would get to experience different experiences without us. And that was particularly hard for me. Because we have always done things together. Because I never had the opportunity as a child and always wished I had.

But more than that, I am able to see that my older son has a life apart from us. Not in a huge way yet. But it is starting to take shape. And as a parent, that is frightening. It means letting go of your child (to a certain extent) and hoping like hell that the lessons you have been teaching have sunken in, grown roots, been learned.

Yet, we still hold on. To mementos; tiny baby clothes, shaky, uneven happy faces and preschool watercolor masterpieces that help us remember and hold close the babies we once carried, fed, cuddled, and have left us to preschool, elementary school, Tween groups.

So much change. So little time. So many more to come.

For the record, Matthew had an awesome time. I think he really enjoyed doing something outside of the "circle" with kids his own age. I think it made him feel more "grown-up" to have different plans than those of his other brothers. Andrew really enjoyed being the "oldest" while Matthew was gone. He had a great time with Joshua, not having to battle for attention from him. Joshua loved having the attention of just one brother, versus the fight of two over him.

And John and I? We were a little lost, but thinking about the days when there were two instead of three. And then three. And how difficult it was, for a while. And how things seem to be calming down a bit. And how, in spite of all the ass wiping and group activities and new challenges, we miss those days of sweet baby smell and tiny fingers and toes.

And we reevaluate.

We adjust to the new role of parenting that requires less hard physical labor, but more attention to detail and wit.

You go from diaper bags to thinking about handing over a cell phone so that you can keep tabs (Hey, no judgment out there, ok? I am just THINKING about it!).

And the paradigm shifts yet again. You feel unsettled as you charter through new territory and learn to test out your sea legs. You muddle through and pray you are on the right course.

You hold on. And somehow, you never forget how it felt to want to be understood. You remember how it felt when you got to do things on your "own."

And when you see that same expression of surprise and confidence in your own child when you let go a little, you know that you are on the right track.

You let go.

Run, Maria, Run...

I just got back from my first day of training. Sande, my neighbor, and I were on our way at 6:15 am. Our Weston team was meeting near the Weston Town Center. Our coaches and mentors had the station really decorated and full of all kinds of goodies for before and after the race.

I have to admit that I was a little overwhelmed with the challenge I am embarking on. I think the reality hit me as I was signing in, getting my picture taken by the team banner and putting on my name tag.

Even at 7:00 am, the humidity was unbearable. Our head coach, Samantha, introduced all the mentors, coaches, and captains. After that, she had us break out into our groups and we introduced ourselves. I decided to go with the walking group for now, but will definitely be pushing myself throughout training to do more running than walking come Marathon Day.

We warmed up and we were off. I learned several things during our short course today. One, I will be bringing my water bottle holder next week. Second, I need to get a pacing watch that can be set to notify you of when you can switch from walking to running. I was not too far off from the middle of the pack and was especially happy that I was not with the slowest of the walkers. I did manage to run in short spurts towards the end of our thirty minute session.

Afterwards, our coaches had ice cold water cloths for us. I cannot tell you how good those felt. The actual exercise was not bad, as I can handle an hour long spinning or shadowboxing class. The problem was the heat and humidity! The best part was the stretching afterwards...it felt SO GOOD!

We also had a short informational session regarding the type of equipment we should be looking for. I was glad to have had my brand new running shoes with really great support for my ankles. I didn't even feel the two miles today!

Afterwards, Sande and I headed to Jamba Juice for a treat. We met a lady who did the marathon with Team in Training a couple of years ago. Her six year old son has leukemia and has been battling it for the last three years. I don't think it was a coincidence that we met her today. It really helps to put a face to the people we are trying to help.

I will write more after next week's training. During the week, I will be alternating between cross training, like spinning, and working with the treadmill to get my endurance up. I am so ready for this challenge, and I am so grateful for those cheering me on!

(Somewhat) Finished...for now...and pictures to boot!

After a week of extreme remodeling, I am somewhat done. I have cleaned out three rooms, three respective closets full of the junk of eleven years and three children. I have had painting and a honey-do list completed with the help of a trustworthy handyman, and I have reorganized and decorated.

The only room that is completely finished is Matthew's, my oldest son. It is funny that he is back in the room that he started in almost ten years ago, bunnies not included. He wanted a more sophisticated look, I guess, along with dark green walls. Um, no to green walls, yes to no more bunnies...You be the judge regarding sophistication...

BEFORE:

AFTER:

And on a budget, not counting that I paid for the paint job. Considering what I was covering up, I think it was well worth every penny not to have done it myself.

The younger boys' room is still a work in progress. I am a stickler for keeping things as fair as possible. I had a hard time trying to find something Andrew, middle son, would like, so I kept what they had. Pretty boring, but until I can find something affordable and that we both (actually, all three of us, because Joshua needs to have some kind of say in it, no?) can live with, it will stay this plain. Still, an improvement from having bunk beds which are all kinds of wicked to have to change sheets for a 5' 1" vertically challenged person like me. Don't even get me started on what it's like to clean vomit from the top bunk, using only that little, narrow ladder. Is it pathetic that I am looking forward to changing sheets on these beds?

AFTER:

But the crown jewel is the playroom/boy cave. Andrew, in the negotiations, got to pick what was going in that room since he would still have to share a room with Joshua. There are still some old (as in fifteen year old, they are NEVER going to boot up again) carcasses computers that need to be shucked and miscellaneous slides, old 8mm movies from my childhood (fear not, these have been converted to the 21st century) that need to be stored. Here is what we came up with.

AFTER:

Next up, Mommy and Daddy's closet and the evil fashion disasters that lurk there; disasters that Stacy and Clinton from What Not To Wear would surely crucify me for and the dreaded garage.

But truly, what happiness to see my boys' faces upon their arrival home from their weeklong visit to Grandma and Granddaddy's. To hear their remarks on the items in their rooms, how I had recycled some stuff that we already had, how everything was arranged for them and their enjoyment.

And EXTREME happiness that the bulk trash is coming on Friday, people...and I am going to get my money's worth this month!