Untitled and Unfinished

When I told my father I wanted to become a teacher, he flinched. Not because of the traditional reasons, such as the limited financial possibilities, or the fear that my career might mirror his own short teaching career in the 60’s, where race riots and metal detectors were the norm at Medford High. No, he was nervous that I’d get hurt. At the time, I thought I might want to teach kids with special needs, and he (correctly) speculated that I would want to adopt them all and take them home, that I would want to hold them all, hug their hurts away, and potentially give too much of myself to them. But a few courses in, my lifelong love of literature and writing solidified my true calling as an English teacher, and I am sure my father was relieved. But I am also sure he didn’t expect the hurts to come in a completely unexpected and sad way, like when I lose a student. It has happened too often, and the list is too long.

Steven DeMarco. Allan MacLean. Jeff Flores. Jason Graham. Jimmy McGonagle. Steve Baxter. Ross Alameddine. Carolyn Smallcomb. Alyssa Nanopoulos. Patrick Barry.

Most of them were barely twenty, and though they are united in the fact that they all left us too soon, that they all attended Austin, and that they left holes in our hearts, they are as different as shells on a beach.

Losing them hurts in a way I never expected, and never completely goes away. As an English teacher, I feel sometimes connected to my students in a special way, as so much of what they learn and contribute in my class involves a give and take, or a revelation of personal history. They write about their feelings, their fears, their triumphs and reactions. They joke about their families and friends, they find themselves, their opinions, and pieces of their future selves in new and surprising ways on the page. They are often braver on paper than they are in speech, for the mere distancing of those words in writing from their physical selves means they can shape them, own them, and change them. In the fall, they are nervous and expectant; as the seasons change, so turns their dedication, and by spring, the warm weather awakens their silly side, and everything becomes relaxed and happy. By  the end of springtime, we know each other well, we have tested each other, we have become friendly. And when we all leave for summer vacation, we feel good. Happy to have known each other, and, in a positive way, to have outgrown each other. Spring and summer are usually wonderful. 

But when Ross Alameddine died in the spring of 2007, it wasn't just Austin's pain; it was the nations. In April of 2007, Ross was one of the victims in the Virginia Tech shooting. I had known and adored his older sister for her charismatic personality and adorable ability to make anyone smile. She was petite, lively, and hilarious, and though I had not actually taught her in class, she was one of my dancers, she had attended my alma mater, and she had even lived in the same dorm room on the first floor. Ross was one of my students; he had taken my Creative Writing class as a senior in the spring of 2005, and had impressed me in a totally different way; he was as articulate as he was intelligent, quirky and unique, wonderfully gifted and unabashed. I adored him in a completely different way, and though I hadn’t directly spoken to him after his Austin graduation, I still had his senior picture posted on my file cabinet. 

I was driving to my mom’s house when my cell rang.

“Marlz?”

“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

“Did you see the news? There was a school shooting in Virginia. At Virginia Tech.”

“Oh, Christ. Was it bad?”

“Honey, I think one of the students – one was from Austin. I think - I think he was one of yours."

When I arrived at my mom’s house, the news was on, and seeing the same senior picture I had taped to my file cabinet broadcast across the news was gut-wrenching.

Our school was in shock. When I was asked by our Campus Minister to say a few words about Ross at the Memorial Mass to be held at our school, I was so honored and humbled to be the person who could give voice to the eloquent and exemplary young man who graced my classroom. But I couldn’t find the right words to capture him. I spoke about his intelligence and excellence as a writer. I spoke about the way he was so comfortable in his own skin; how he was a terrific dancer, how he fixed my computer weekly, how he sought out new and obscure bands. I spoke of the way he ducked his head and smiled to the side when he read his work aloud, how he adjusted his glasses and nodded a little like, "Yeah, that was pretty good," when it was excellent. I said I was sorry he was gone, that I knew he had so much more to share, and that the world he would have created and shaped would be different now. I said I was lucky to have known him, that we all were, and that I was proud to have shared laughter with him and applauded his successes. I said that his short life gave us a glimpse of what could be, and I was so grateful for it. I read some of his poetry and choked up halfway through it. 

His wonderful friends stood up and shared memories of him from his elementary school days all the way through his life. They were eloquent, honest, and real, just as he was. They wore their "Rosslets" - turquoise rubber bracelets with "Rossmo" stamped on them. And while I could never take any credit for the people they became that day, a piece of me is so happy to have known them, taught them, and been there for them when they were young, because I was able to see them when they were kids, and I have the privilege of watching them grow. 

How I wish they all had more time. 

Today I'll wear turquoise for him, and my classes will pray for him. Much like this post, things will feel unfinished and sad today. 

The Panic Rabbit

As Easter rapidly approaches, my thoughts turn to all things bunny-related (including Cadbury Mini-Eggs). Yet I am faced with yet another creature who keeps hopping into my path. I call him The Panic Rabbit. 

As a working mom, I have days when everything goes very smoothly and according to plan. As a teacher, I have the outline of my day as well as my students' goals and homework in my work planner. Finally, as a compulsive list-maker, I consult my personal journal/notebook several times a day for reminders. I cross things off, and it truly helps in the grand scheme of things. But things ain't always grand. Mornings, for example. This is when The Panic Rabbit arrives. 

Sometimes I wake up with him on my chest, and I barely have enough time to sprint to the shower, where I stand under the spray trying to remember if there's something I'm forgetting or missing. Other days, despite the fact that I lay out my daughter's clothes, lunch, backpack and jacket the night before, the time passes so quickly and I find myself tapping impatiently as I wait for her to finish her breakfast so that both of us can sprint to the car and speed to school. The recent detours en route to my job give me more anxiety than a mouse in a maze, and though I know there are world issues with far more gravity and consequences than my morning routine, the thumping of the Panic Rabbit's giant feet on my chest make me want to grab him by the ears and fling him over my shoulder.

Yesterday, he made a special appearance. I was getting ready for a full day of work, including an administrative observation (which is part of our job, and happens yearly, but is still nerve-wracking), as well as a few meetings. My son, who likes to be as close to me as possible after he wakes up, decided to exercise his new favorite word: duck. He followed me into the bathroom, placed his rubber duck on the edge of the tub, knocked it onto the floor saying "duck - quack quack!" and repeating his motions about a dozen times. The sound of his little voice was as adorable as his happy smile. I leaned into the mirror to finish putting in my contacts and giving myself a final once-over. My cowlick was tamed, my bangs were behaving, my makeup was on, my Spanx were spankin' and I felt pretty great in my Ralph Lauren dress. This is good, I thought. This is going to be a good day. I stepped back from the mirror.

And then I pinched his little finger under my high heel. Cue the Panic Rabbit.

I don't know what felt worse: his squashed digit or my guilt. He cried, of course, which prompted my own tears. Fortunately, he is a resilient little guy, and like the athlete I dream he'll become one day, he literally shook it off. During breakfast, he picked up his sliced strawberries with the same gusto (and dexterity, thank God) as always. But when I went to kiss him goodbye, he looked at me seriously, pushed me away, and said, "No, Mama," and the Rabbit came back.

It's not just the mornings; it's parenthood in general. Whether worrying if my daughter is doing okay as  one of the youngest members of her class or fretting about the health level of her classmates, I find myself in a cycle of worry and relief, questions, concern, and comfort, and the hopeful expectation that the next day will be a better day.

My father once gave me the wise advice that each person gets the same amount of hours in the day; it's what we choose to do with them that counts.  I am going to spend more time trying to quiet my Panic Rabbit. Like his furry counterparts who frolic in the roads, my Panic Rabbit can dart in from nowhere to give me a start. But he'd better keep his distance. I'm dangerous behind the wheel, especially when I'm late for work. Just sayin'.

Target Tunnel Vision

Can someone explain why I, as a rational and educated woman, absolutely lose my mind at Target? In the past, I have treated Target like an exclusive Parisian boutique to which I may never return, so I buy everything in sight. But it's my latest development that is giving me a headache. I think I have Target Tunnel Vision. It's not just that I think I need everything in the store; it's that I make separate trips to purchase them.

I understand that life with kids lobotomizes us at times. Even in pregnancy, I would have moments where I couldn't remember words, likening the process of retrieving them from my memory to opening an old, creaking file cabinet and rooting through its ancient, crumbling contents. Once Peter called from work to ask what he needed to pick up from the store; I stumbled, "You know, the stuff for the, um, you know breakfast thing? The cereal? You know, it's white?" Mystery word: MILK. And I have a degree in Linguistics.

But these days, my memory is fine. I aspire to be a very organized person at work and at home (though one is markedly more difficult) and I consult my hot pink SugarPaper Planner (purchased at Target last year) with regularity. I make lists, and check things off. But when I get in the store, my Tunnel Vision kicks in. I walk in thinking giftformolly giftformolly giftformolly and forget that I need cheese sticks, socks, and a new camera card. 

I try to figure out why this happens. I don't know if it's the distractions of finally being free alone that makes my head turn, or the fact that I walk right by all of these items I need, even though they are on a list that I ignore.Maybe I was distracted by the fact that I had forgotten my coupon for Boudreaux Butt Paste, or maybe I was annoyed that the dvd of The Great Gatsby had dropped to $10 when I  paid $13 last week. Maybe it was Chubby's gleeful chorus of "Mama! Mama Mama MAMA!" and the ensuing giggles that made my mind wander from the necessary tasks. But whatever the motivation, the result is the same. Thus, in the last week, I have been there nearly every day. 

Some might argue that I find myself there so frequently because it's a haven, a respite from the craziness of life where I can find relief and retail. Yes, it's convenient - it's just a few miles from my house, and carries nearly every item I need. It's open until 11:00 p.m. which is perfect for the-kids-are-asleep-now-i-can-eat-and-oh-wait-what's-left-in-the-fridge moments. My Target even has a Starbucks. The prime location and treats alone would inspire any working mom to attend services at the Church of Red Dot. But something else is going on that I can't figure out quite yet. If I ever make it over to the self-help book section, I'll let you know.

Motherhood, Messes, and Kidnapping the Babysitter

Motherhood, Messes, and Kidnapping the Babysitter

There’s a popular meme that says, “Good moms have messy houses and happy kids,” or something like that. I disagree.

In my college days, I was a bit more, well, relaxed. As those who knew me (and definitely those who lived with me) can attest, I loved clothes, I had a lot of them, and I usually left them hanging around the room. Laundry day proved a brief respite as they were swept into my white plastic basket and carted to the JOA basement (Saint Joan of Arc Hall, for those not in the know) for their bath, and then the cycle would repeat. I had piles of books, stacks of notebooks, and bulletin boards full of photos. Having lots of my things around me, in college, was a comfort.

And now? It’s stifling. My son’s toys have multiplied and left their bastard children everywhere (and I mean everywhere, including the hamper, the tub, and one of the cabinets). The ghostly form of my daughter’s gi leans in a corner, snidely observing from a distance. The clothes from yesterday’s ski trip are crawling across the floor in an attempt at freedom, and while my kids had a great day yesterday and I know we made a lot of memories they will have a fun time recalling, I just can’t think in this space.

It’s not just the physical messes. Sure, I am consciously deciding to gift my friends’ children with gift cards because the idea of giving a toy with multiple pieces that can be strewn about seems counterproductive to friendship. And yes, though I have girlfriends on both ends of the house spectrum (meaning homes half my size, or double my size), we all agree that there is never enough space for all that we accumulate.

But it’s the mental messes as well. I know I should put the Inner Perfect Mom who wants a glossy, crumb-free home out of my mind, and I should be fully present in the moments of play with my children. But instead, the multitasking mom in me sees this as a challenge. Thus, I try to make up new and creative games like “Bitty Baby Says: We Can Throw Out These Old Puzzles” or “Fashion Show for Donating Clothes.” It’s awful.  I want to spend time with my kids playing with a clear head and heart. But some days I can’t.

Life is messy now, and I know that I have to understand that. For example, John Sawyer, in an attempt at challenging his sister’s newfound athletic ability, is competing in the Active Toddler Olympics and has medaled in Disarming Baby Locks, Opening OXO Cookie Containers and Silently Devouring the Contents, and Throwing Things in the Trash. Chasing him is my cardio, and it’s exhausting.

And it continues to get messier. Last week I attended the wake of a dear friend’s father (a friend for whom I would - and did - literally give the clothes off my back ten years ago, and now, we blindly roam the rows at Target at 10 p.m.). So when I heard her father had passed, I wanted to make every effort to pay my respects. In this case, it meant picking up my babysitter, taking her for a ride with me and the kids so that I could attend the wake, and then driving her home on the way to meet my husband for dinner. A bit complex, but definitely doable.

Unless I drove to the wrong location of the funeral home chain. And then got stuck in traffic on the way there and back from the actual location. And then rescheduled the dinner reservations. And then got stuck in another monumental traffic jam. And then had to bring the poor babysitter with us to dinner. And then realized the set menu at the restaurant was less than appealing to most people, including said babysitter, whose intended two-hour stint turned into a four-hour one. And the beat goes on.

If it’s one thing I am learning about being a parent, it’s that the planned moments often implode, and the sublime ones appear without warning. As one who has always enjoyed a happy surprise, I look forward to the next one.  But I’m saving my extra cash for the babysitter who I paid double that night, and who, luckily, is still speaking to us.

"Each time I hit the publish button, it is with a delicate balance of vulnerability and bravery." - Julia Hembree, Elated Exhaustion

So here it is. I stand before you with my blog, and I stand behind my words. 
I hope they bring you a smile. Thank you for reading!

Ninja Gift

On the eve of Valentine's Day, I am reminded of one of my favorite gift-giving activities of the Christmas season. Usually, I grapple with the question for the ages: do I spoil those around me with material gifts, or do I find a different way to express my love without consumerism overload?

The answer is simple: NINJA GIFT. Here's what I've done:

Every year at Christmas, I am gifted by friends, family, and my students with a multitude of wonderful things for myself and my family. Often the gifts are perfectly suited for us, or at least for re-gifting to someone close to us. But sometimes there is no place, no space, and no face fitting for these intentions, so I take them for a ride and leave them behind.

It started as an accident; an acquaintance gave me a bottle of anti-bacterial hand lotion in a scent called Hideous Overpowering Lily. Or something. I knew I couldn't exchange it, and I had no idea where it was purchased anyway. I had it in my purse when I went to my daughter's judo class, and since the decor in the restroom happened to match the label on the bottle, I considered it a sign: I Ninja Gifted it and went along my merry way. 

Another example: I have received the same toy for my children about three times. Though it's a popular Melissa and Doug toy that is found in roughly 50 local stores, I have no receipt and no way to exchange it. Rather than perpetuate this frustration by passing it along to a friend (who could ask me where I purchased it and my response would be "Ehhhhmmmm...") I took it to the pediatrician's waiting room and Ninja Gifted. You're welcome, drooling toddler!

Remember the scene in Dead Poets' Society when Ethan Hawke's character receives the same desk set from a family member every birthday? Substitute me for Ethan, leather gloves for the desk set, and Christmas for the birthday. Every. Single. Year. Needless to say, my family member also thinks I have huge paws. Whatever. Anyway, I left last year's pair in the Lord and Taylor dressing room. I like to think someone picked them up and clapped their large hands with glee felt like they hit the jackpot and waved at all their friends on the way out.

To me, Ninja Gifting is a way to rationalize (or least least unload) the many things that come into my house during the holidays, but also to give my five-year-old a healthy awareness of varying economic levels ("Not everyone has an American Girl Doll, babe. We can get your doll an outfit, but Sage's $250 hot air balloon is not happening. Ever.") and it's easier to show her in addition to telling her. So yes, it may seem odd, but both sides win. It's more calculated than a Goodwill drop off, because they're little surprises that hopefully give someone a smile. Also, it forces us to be creative about who might need something that we no longer do. Sometimes it's something as simple as leaving those diapers your baby is outgrowing in the "Family Area" of the public bathroom, knowing that someone breathed a huge sigh of relief because they forgot to pack diapers, their babe had a blowout, and you saved the day. Emerson gets a kick out of leaving "secret surprises for strangers" along the way, and with any luck, one karmic day, something may appear from a fellow ninja just when we need it.  

Wishing you all a Happy Valentine's Day - and the perfect gift, of course.

The Finish Lie

No, it's not a typo - it's my latest realized truth. There is no finish line. It's a FINISH LIE.

Life as a working mom lately has been a series of unfinished business: the load of laundry that sits for an extra long time in the washer before meeting the dryer, the projects that don't exactly get completed to the standards I want to hold, and not even being able to finish up in the bathroom. (I don't mean getting that extra luxurious hair-conditioning mask in the shower or that peaceful, steamy bath with classical music softly playing in the background. I mean: Monday I put eyeliner on one eye and proudly went to work.)

To be honest, the work-life balance is kicking my ass. And I'm not alone. In an informal Facebook poll of my friends, most of us are averaging three uninterrupted hours of sleep per night, and if we are lucky, we squeeze in another three after a feeding/burping/under-the-bed monster-check. Most of us go to bed around 11, wake up in the wee hours, and hopefully get another wave of sleep, though that second wave of sleep usually involves another small person in the bed. And most of the people that contributed to my poll work outside the home as well as being parents, so there's a lot of bleary-eyed people out there, which leads to even more craziness (Like when I catch myself halfway through my Emily Dickinson lecture to my seniors. Who are reading Hamlet).

I guess the moral of the story is the fact that our "finished" days are, well, finished. Gone are the days when a task meets its end with grace, when an afternoon goes according to plan. Now it's a handful of Cheerios in the car on the way to work and a quick spoonful of yogurt at my desk while plowing through correcting papers at lunch. The weekends which once stood as a beacon of possibility are now overflowing with church, kids' parties, the occasional family visit, and laundry/shopping/home improvement. Despite my love for making lists, my lists now sprout arms like a mythological creature, and sometimes it feels like they're after me.

But then, at the end of a long day, I look at my children when they're asleep, and not only thank God that they're finally asleep, but that they are mine.