Have You Heard?

First, let's start with the backstory: I have bionic hearing. I hear everything, all the time. I hear people whispering in line behind me, I hear all the squeaks and shrieks (thank you, John Sawyer) in my house in the middle of the night, I hear the incredibly subtle underlying soundtracks in movies (heartbeats, mellow rainfalls, and geographically accurate birdcalls) even. I hear my students whispering in the back row of my class and, unfortunately, the subjects they are whispering about, and though they test me at times, I always catch them. I hear it all. 

In one of the great ironies of my life, my husband is slightly hearing impaired, while I am particularly sensitive to noise. We like to joke that, when we are very old, my eyesight will be gone, he won't be able to hear anything and we'll toddle around together. He'll tell me I look beautiful even though I've applied lipstick to my eyebrows, and I'll completely misquote poetry to him and he'll smile in agreement. We like to think we'll balance each other out.

But sometimes my auditory gift is just too much - it can be distracting and annoying. At parties, I hear conversations happening simultaneously on both sides of the room. John's endless renditions of "Elmo's Song" are endearing, but become grating very quickly. And when Emerson plays video games on the iPad, it sounds like they're happening on my shoulder. 

Lately, however, Emerson, age 5, has been saying she "didn't hear me" say certain things. Yet I know her hearing is perfect. 

"I didn't hear you, Mommy!"

Mommy ain't buying it.

I know that 5 is a distractable age, but at the risk of sounding melodramatic, her words seem particularly manipulative as ours is a semi-hearing-impaired household, so my husband's actual inability to hear her sometimes does not equal Emerson's choice to deliberately ignore my words. 

Yes, I can understand how she "didn't hear me" when I was on the phone with my boss, when I surreptitiously asking her to stop leaping on a sheet of bubble wrap, gesturing silently and wildly for her to cut it out whilst the bubble wrap emitted pops that sounded like gunfire. 

And yes, perhaps she "didn't hear me" when I asked her to get a diaper for me as I chased her mid-potty-training brother, who was also in medias poop and left a package on my bathroom floor. And her bedroom floor. And his bedroom floor. 

Maybe she didn't hear me when I asked her to quit squirming in her chair at breakfast at the risk of  knocking over my life force Starbucks unsweetened green iced tea and John Sawyer's bowl of Cheerios and sliced peaches. Both were full and untouched. John Sawyer cried just a little more than I did.

But when I warned her about throwing a foam cube backwards over her head at the trampoline park, and she "didn't hear me" and gunned a stranger in the face with said cube, I had HAD IT. Immediately after the cube-in-face moment and subsequent apologies, I informed Em she was tv/iPad/iPod/computer free for the day. 

"Are you listening, Em? I told you not to throw that cube, and you heard me and did it anyway. Luckily that nice lady wasn't hurt, but you lost all of your privileges today. No devices."

"I heard you, Mommy."

I expected to hear grumbling all the way home. I expected to hear her cry at the injustice of being taken to task. Here is what I have heard instead; I have heard my daughter:

• Singing dozens of songs on-key (which is a genetic mystery) while playing with her dolls 
• Creating multiple drawings for all family members
• Reading four books aloud
• Building an elaborate railway system for her napping brother
• Making a list of menu options for the upcoming week
• Generating a Christmas wish list and belting out holiday songs with new words

Now that's what I like to hear. 

In addition to being a Gold Medalist in the Hearing Olympics, I also tend to be a perfectionist. I want things to be done completely, thoroughly, and hopefully, with a little bit (or a lot) of enthusiasm and style. I am  used to my students listening (or pretending to listen) when I teach. So maybe my expectations are a little high. Coupled with the onset of summer, and with it, my idyllic dreams of fun days with my kids, maybe my expectations skyrocket. Like most teachers, I want to pack each day with as much fun, laughter and excitement as possible, so I can reach back for these happy days when I'm up to my ears in college recommendations and work obligations, and take a sip from them like they're a nice, relaxing glass of wine. With that being said, I'm afraid I may turn into Chevy Chase in vacation when he informs his kids, that they're "On a quest...a quest for fun!" and well, here's the rest: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=makeONYZfXM

I want to give my kids happy experiences, for their own memories as well as my own. And like all quests, sometimes we get lost along the way, but we discover something else pretty cool. Sometimes things backfire - in a perfect way. Sometimes, you just have to listen.

Week in Review: Neat and Complete? Oh, but no.

As I get older, I am aware of my affection for things that are “neat and complete.” Like the perfect card that gets mailed on time, the playdate that goes by smoothly, and the laundry that is washed, folded and put away. These days, completion seems to bring me a satisfaction that has no parallel.

On Thursday, I had such a day – I completed the in-text vocabulary list of a 500+ page summer reading book that I’ve never taught before, ordered new textbooks and finished some administrative tasks connected to my new position, and, in an attempt to make my health and fitness a priority, saw my terrific nutritionist who is really helping me to turn my diet around. On my way home from my appointment with her, I stopped at a farm stand and, inspired, bought tons of fresh fruit and veggies that we all enjoyed that day.  We swam, had showers and a nice dinner, and went to bed happy and exhausted. 

Neat and Complete, right?  Evidently the duration is only about twelve hours. Because the last day and a half has been a mess.

Yesterday I was preparing for my parents’ 44^th wedding anniversary, which is also my dad’s birthday. I planned to write something cute on one of the slates my husband keeps in the basement, pose the kids for a little photo on the porch swing (while strategically leaving out the windowsills that have been scraped down for our next home project – trim painting). On my quest for chalk, I headed to the garage and stepped on a silver of glass that lodged itself in the pad of my left foot and I almost went through the ceiling.

After trying to dislodge it myself with tweezers, a hot shower, and a lot of prayer, I called my dad to watch the kids while I headed to Winchester Hospital (where they’re masters of delicately removing things – they once extracted a fake Styrofoam sparkly berry from a shoplifted Christmas ornament Em stuck up her nose when she was three). ANYWAY, plucking out glass is a lot more intricate that it sounds; I had an x-ray, lots of paperwork, and a genius nurse named Allison who took it out in less than two minutes.  Thank God. But in the midst of all this, I forgot a hair appointment, missed a barre class, and managed to piss off both of my kids so they decided to fight with each other all day.

After the glass in foot disaster yesterday, I thought today would be simpler. It was not. Much like an unfinished play that constantly begs for revision, my life is messier by the minute. I will spare you all of the gory details, but here's a small plot outline. If I tell it in third person, it's easier to laugh about it:

Setting: LuluLemon dressing room

Cast: MARLA, filled with newfound confidence and excitement to buy workout clothes, her daughter EMERSON, her son JOHN, and his overflowing DIAPER

Plot summary: After trying on a few items, MARLA lifts JOHN out of his stroller to give him a snuggle and realize his entire stroller is full of poop, as the DIAPER has somehow disintegrated. 

EMERSON (horrified, shouting): OH NO! THERE IS POOP EVERYWHERE - IT'S DISGUSTING! JOHN, THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE! YOU ARE SO GROSS!

JOHN giggles in response.

SALESGIRL (knock knock): Is everything okay in there, Maria?

MARLA: Um, it's MARLA, actually, and I think we have everything under control. Thank you.

There is absolutely no conceivable way that the recovered wood dressing room doors provide any protection against the stench emanating from the usually sweet JOHN. MARLA digs all the wipes out of the package in the back of the stroller, changes JOHN into an outfit she originally intended to return, and tried to recover some dignity on the way out the door while smuggling a plastic bag full of refuse, including the malfunctioning DIAPER under her arm.

...and scene.

For Good

In a reflective moment of post-graduation melancholy, I have been listening to “For Good” from the Broadway musical “Wicked” in various forms. The original cast version (Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenowith) is incredible, and the crush I developed on Anna Kendrick after “Pitch Perfect” is only escalated her performance with Kristin Chenowith here  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEdnIvnCko8 

It’s an ode to growing and outgrowing each other, and it’s perfect for us as teachers, who, if we are very lucky, are told that “we change lives.” But if we are very, very lucky, we are changed ourselves.

I've heard it said,

That people come into our lives

For a reason

Bringing something we must learn.

And we are lead to those

Who help us most to grow if we let them.

And we help them in return.

Well, I don't know if I believe that's true

But I know I'm who I am today

Because I knew you.

…

It well may be

That we will never meet again

In this lifetime.

So, let me say before we part:

So much of me

Is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me

Like a handprint on my heart.

And now whatever way our stories end

I know you'll have rewritten mine

By being my friend.

…

Who can say if I've been changed for the better

But because I knew you.

I have been changed for good.

It’s melodramatic to say that every student changes our lives, but they exist for me in groups. TrevorMaddieMaxAileen exist for me as one beautiful, intelligent, intertwined conglomerate. CeciliaAmyPaige were truly the beating heart of the dance program this year. I could go on and on, but I will keep it simple: I thank them for a terrific year, and I certainly have been changed by their energy, enthusiasm, and exuberance.

Mother's Day Musical Musings: Where Am I?

I’m always amazed at the tactile and transformative power of a song to bring me back to a time in my memory. Maybe it’s universal, but when a certain song comes on the radio, I’m suddenly transported back in time. It’s practically palpable.

On Mother’s Day, I was at Saint Anselm College. Well, not really.

While my NH alma mater certainly holds a place in my heart for a million reasons, I was actually in Maine, Kennebunkport to be exact, eating a long-awaited lobster roll with my husband and my littles. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and we had a great time together. But Sunday’s siren song is always behind us, so while I could have stayed, shopped and snacked all day, we had to get home to the inevitable prep that late Sunday afternoons always demand.  A little grumpily, but with the martyrdom only moms can have, I got into the car to head home on the highway.

On the drive, the kids were happy, tired, and sticky (thank you Ben &Jerry’s “Two Free Scoops for Moms”) but they were beginning to get into that weird hyper phase that precedes a nap, exacerbated further by their carseat captivity. So Peter and I decided to pick out some calming tunes to soothe the backseat savages. Peter chose classic 70’s rock songs, as always. But my choices surprised me. I chose songs that took me right back to college, songs that anyone who graduated in the 90’s would find on their “Chillax Playlist.” But this time I chose them for different reasons.

When I was in college, my favorite song was “All I Want” by Toad the Wet Sprocket, a 1992 classic introduced to me by a dear friend. At the time, the cache of “I found the coolest alternative band” was as impressive as the song was, but again, the lyrics spilled over into my life. http://www.metrolyrics.com/all-i-want-lyrics-toad-the-wet-sprocket.html I loved it, and listening took me right back to sunny days on the Quad, watching people play Frisbee when I should have been at Humanities lecture.  The lyrics repeat “All I want is to feel this way/ To be this close, to feel the same” and it’s just how I felt at that moment: young, invincible, happy and free. After I graduated, “Stay/Wasting Time” by Dave Matthews Band became my anthem – a semi-sexy little ode to being in the moment, to love, and to chilling out and being young that captured my heart. http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/davematthewsband/stay.html. 

What I realized, though, was that the songs I was wistfully choosing about being young and being in the moment still had relevance right now. Yes, my “present” is very different than what it was when I first heard those songs. True, my “moment” isn’t spent lying carefree on the college lawn, knowing the people I loved most were right on campus with me. But I remember being in that moment too – feeling lucky that my family afforded me the chance to attend such a beautiful college, lucky that I felt loved and valued, lucky that I was studying something that spoke to me so clearly. I was also afraid of not finding the right job, worried what path my then-boyfriend and I would take, and overwhelmed by the thought of the future outside my safe college cocoon. Being in the moment wasn't about the perfection of the moment - it was about being there, and being aware of what I was thinking and feeling.

There have been so many moments since my college days. My outfits, my body, and my definition of “family,” have changed substantially (my erratic sleeping patterns, ironically, are identical) but that realization of where I was in space and time, was a special one. I was with the ones I loved. We had laughed together and played together. we had celebrated my birthday and Mother's Day, and we had more responsibilities to meet together. So yes, the time was passing, but it was passing together. And zipping down the highway being pensive was something that would happen again and again, with music playing in the background. Maybe I'll be driving Emerson to her first day of college, when she's nervous and excited. Maybe I'll be coming home from a hockey game with my son, when he's proud and beaming, or exhausted and disappointed. The moments of reminiscence will always come as we make more and more memories, but looking around is always better than looking back, and though my ears may request songs of the past, my eyes will be on the ones I love. 

So where am I? In the words of the Dave Matthews Band, "Where you are is where I belong/ I do know, where you go, is where I wanna be." So that's where I am: in the moment. Because it's the best place to be.

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.