Time to get back on track with this blog. Procrastination is an art-form and as I stare at all the work that surrounds me, writing a post after a year and a half of hiatus seems completely sensible. Maybe I feel inspired by all the details that keep turning in my head, maybe I have reached a point where documentation of my chaos seems like a reach for sanity, or maybe I am feeling the effects of that second cup of coffee. Whatever the reason, I feel compelled to write.
In the last few months, there have been so many times when I have shared a story that others have related to, and this has made me happy. Wait, let me clarify. People who enjoy simple threads of normalcy in their lives don’t often relate to my stories. They do, however, find humor in them. In this case, I believe that writing is a win-win situation. The people who understand the utter chaos in my life will feel like they are not alone and the people who don’t, will get a chance to laugh with relief.
The question is, then, where to begin. I could write about our recent move. I could write about trying to keep up with the course work in my Master’s program. In fact, I could write about the everyday rollercoaster of being a high school teacher and mother of four. All in due time… I believe a great starting point would be some of my recent lessons on humility.
Most people with an over-inflated sense of self simply don’t have children. Every so often I will come across parents who have managed to maintain their pride and I marvel at the magic behind this accomplishment. I am skeptical of the mother that always has it together and is perpetually calm in her tone and tender in her approach – and by skeptical I mean exceedingly jealous. Any day I feel that I have it “together”, I am humbled back into my reality.
New blouse for work? Coffee stains by 9am. Great hair day? Screaming kid in the grocery store. One pant size smaller? Smudge of marker on your face for an unknown period of time. Arrived to daughter’s dance class on time? Son asks man sitting next to you why his voice sounds like a girl’s. To me, humility means that you embrace the fact that you will never be all-great at once.
Let me illustrate. I drive an old car, and by old I don’t mean “classy” or “vintage”. This car has been a blessing to us over the years, but I have had to put-up with some pretty irritating nonsense. For example, there is no air conditioning so I sweat all summer and I can see my breath inside the car every morning in the winter. Last week I decided to dress professionally for work and show-off my new boots. This is where I think God gets an instant message that Nicole is feeling smug and He decides to intervene. On my way to work I could not believe how loudly the diesel truck next to me was rumbling. When the truck drove past me and turned right, the sound did not go away. It was my car. I drove one more block to see if I could at least get nearer to the campus. The car died in the line of student cars and I was stuck.
I frantically attempted to start the car and it was only after the line of cars behind me had started their symphony of car horns that the atupid thing started and I was able to turn into a small parking lot across the street.
New boots? Well, I got to use those new boots to get out of my car, walk to the street corner, and wait for the light with about fifty sleepy teenagers. My first thought was, maybe I look like a student. The quiet, “This is awkward,” that I heard whispered behind me pulled me back to reality. Apparently one of my first period students was at the heels of my new boots and felt as weird as I did about the situation.
I humbly walked across the street. I humbly waved to the campus security guard and ignored his puzzled look as I shuffled into the parking lot, and I humbly smiled at the student who said, “Mrs. Dayus, that is so cool that you are choosing to save the environment by walking to school”, and with my sense of pride once again in check, I humbly started class.
I will continue to work on my humility. It seems as if I have no choice. My children don’t know the person I was before I had them. Personally, I don’t remember the person I was before I had them. I do have fleeting memories of a sensible young woman who was on time, ironed her clothes, ate slowly, and spoke complete sentences that sounded intelligible. I think I miss her, but I am not sure. Maybe I need to appreciate the fact that between my kids, my students, my car, and the daily mistakes I make, I actually have a built-in humility adapter that seems to keep me in check.
Humbly yours,
Nicole
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Friday, May 28, 2010
Attempts At Dignity
Dignity is defined as the quality of being worthy of esteem or respect. It is what most of us strive for as we start our day - and it is what some of us try to salvage at the end of it. As a mother, each of my subsequent children have slowly stripped away a little of my self-respect and pride. I shop at the grocery story with food stains on my shirt, I refer to myself in the third person - even when I am alone. I have carefully wagered that one candy bar at the store is the lesser of two evils when a tantrum is involved, even though I am fully aware that I am succumbing to bad parenting. Let's see . . . I pack fruit snacks in MY lunch, I have been known to only paint the first two toenails on each foot if I am wearing open-toe heels and have run out of time, and I choose purses for their maximum capacity rather than style. The list goes on, but I think that you get the point. Here is a typical day in my perpetual quest for dignity . . .
Morning: I am a little tired, but I wake up, I turn off the alarm, and I look forward to what the day may hold. I prepare myself for the challenges that will inevitably cross my path and I drink my coffee with an optimistic spirit. I casually ignore the small reminders that chaos surrounds me: the random tennis shoe in the middle of the dining room, the nerf gun bullets next to my glass figurines on the highest shelf, and the crayons and paper all over the counter. I kiss my husband and kids goodbye and head to work with dignity, ready to take on the day.
Afternoon: I am tired. My pride has been shaken. I wonder why my students don't share my enthusiasm over poetry analysis. I did my best to show my excitement over the various adjectives that can be used to describe tone, but the blank stares rattle my esteem a bit. Okay, so it doesn't help matters when I call on the student who finally raises her hand and all she has to say is, "Mrs. Dayus, your hair looked much better yesterday." Now that I think about it, teaching most of fifth period with a marker smudge on my nose did not do wonders for my self-esteem, either. But it is the afternoon, so I have enough of the day left to muster up my energy and continue in my pursuit of dignity.
Evening: I am really tired. When I get home there are happy faces greeting me and I know there is hope. My senses are revived as I transition from the sound of school bells and busy halls to the noise that my house produces: a Baby Einstein video, the dryer, the barking dog. I am ready to make dinner and settle in for the evening. But wait, there is Tae Kwon Do and then we have Open House at the Preschool, and we are out of juice, pull-ups, and milk, and we need to call the doctor's office before they close . . . So the chaos takes over and my sanity slips through my fingers like the string of a kite. I trip over that same shoe in the middle of the dining room and I take a deep breath. My trek up the stairs reminds me about those nerf bullets next to my precious figurines, and the sight of them is a little more irritating than it was this morning. I confiscate all Nerf guns and place them in the Time-Out Arsenal that exists on the top shelf of our closet. We are late for Tae Kwon Do, we miss the Doctor at the office, and we barely sit down to eat as a family.
Night: Is there even any hope of ending this day?!?!?! I am SOOOO TIRED!!! Bathtime, booktime, songtime, kisstime. Everyone is in bed. My husband and I trudge to the end of the hall, push all the unfolded laundry off our bed with one exhausted swipe of an arm and collapse. I remember the day and all the pieces of self-respect that were stolen from me. After a few minutes, the kids are all asleep. The baby is sleeping soundly, my six-year-old looks precious in his Mario Brother pajamas, my four-year-old is already sprawled out and contorted, but peaceful and sweet, and my eight-year-old is smiling in her sleep, most likely dreaming up some scheme that will amaze or scare us tomorrow. As I fall asleep, I try to think of WHAT was actually accomplished in the day. While my pride is in need of repair, I focus on the fact that my kids are happy, warm, and safe.
At times, I feel like a character in the movie Groundhog Day. Each day I watch the ideal version of myself transform into someone I don't recognize. At the end of each day, I come to the same conclusion: my kids don't need my pride, they need me to be a good mom. And then the day happens all over again.
I will end this entry with a recent example. Last week I ran a 5K. I am really proud with my final results, my time, and the fact that I pushed myself to train. I ran a good race. I knew that my kids were waiting at the finish line with my wonderful and supportive husband. I was about fifty-feet from the finish line when I twisted my ankle and fell. I mean, I REALLY ate it. In retrospect, I am sure that it looked hysterical. I tried to ignore my freshly skinned knees, sore ankle, and jammed thumb and I got up and finished the race. Really???? I just couldn't finish the race with the pride that I deserved for having run it in the first place? No, that would have been too easy. However, my kids did not see me fall, they just saw their mom finish the run. They saw me take on a challenge and complete it. They really had no interest in watching me bask in dignity and self-respect. Actually, when all is said and done, seeing their home-made signs and feeling their tight little hugs around my legs was enough to make me realize that I did not need to watch myself bask in dignity and self-respect, either.
I am getting used to humility. More importantly, I am constantly shifting my understanding of pride. I am learning that my definition of dignity is really the quality of being worthy of esteem or respect DESPITE food stains, half-painted toes, obvious insanity, and skinned knees..
Morning: I am a little tired, but I wake up, I turn off the alarm, and I look forward to what the day may hold. I prepare myself for the challenges that will inevitably cross my path and I drink my coffee with an optimistic spirit. I casually ignore the small reminders that chaos surrounds me: the random tennis shoe in the middle of the dining room, the nerf gun bullets next to my glass figurines on the highest shelf, and the crayons and paper all over the counter. I kiss my husband and kids goodbye and head to work with dignity, ready to take on the day.
Afternoon: I am tired. My pride has been shaken. I wonder why my students don't share my enthusiasm over poetry analysis. I did my best to show my excitement over the various adjectives that can be used to describe tone, but the blank stares rattle my esteem a bit. Okay, so it doesn't help matters when I call on the student who finally raises her hand and all she has to say is, "Mrs. Dayus, your hair looked much better yesterday." Now that I think about it, teaching most of fifth period with a marker smudge on my nose did not do wonders for my self-esteem, either. But it is the afternoon, so I have enough of the day left to muster up my energy and continue in my pursuit of dignity.
Evening: I am really tired. When I get home there are happy faces greeting me and I know there is hope. My senses are revived as I transition from the sound of school bells and busy halls to the noise that my house produces: a Baby Einstein video, the dryer, the barking dog. I am ready to make dinner and settle in for the evening. But wait, there is Tae Kwon Do and then we have Open House at the Preschool, and we are out of juice, pull-ups, and milk, and we need to call the doctor's office before they close . . . So the chaos takes over and my sanity slips through my fingers like the string of a kite. I trip over that same shoe in the middle of the dining room and I take a deep breath. My trek up the stairs reminds me about those nerf bullets next to my precious figurines, and the sight of them is a little more irritating than it was this morning. I confiscate all Nerf guns and place them in the Time-Out Arsenal that exists on the top shelf of our closet. We are late for Tae Kwon Do, we miss the Doctor at the office, and we barely sit down to eat as a family.
Night: Is there even any hope of ending this day?!?!?! I am SOOOO TIRED!!! Bathtime, booktime, songtime, kisstime. Everyone is in bed. My husband and I trudge to the end of the hall, push all the unfolded laundry off our bed with one exhausted swipe of an arm and collapse. I remember the day and all the pieces of self-respect that were stolen from me. After a few minutes, the kids are all asleep. The baby is sleeping soundly, my six-year-old looks precious in his Mario Brother pajamas, my four-year-old is already sprawled out and contorted, but peaceful and sweet, and my eight-year-old is smiling in her sleep, most likely dreaming up some scheme that will amaze or scare us tomorrow. As I fall asleep, I try to think of WHAT was actually accomplished in the day. While my pride is in need of repair, I focus on the fact that my kids are happy, warm, and safe.
At times, I feel like a character in the movie Groundhog Day. Each day I watch the ideal version of myself transform into someone I don't recognize. At the end of each day, I come to the same conclusion: my kids don't need my pride, they need me to be a good mom. And then the day happens all over again.
I will end this entry with a recent example. Last week I ran a 5K. I am really proud with my final results, my time, and the fact that I pushed myself to train. I ran a good race. I knew that my kids were waiting at the finish line with my wonderful and supportive husband. I was about fifty-feet from the finish line when I twisted my ankle and fell. I mean, I REALLY ate it. In retrospect, I am sure that it looked hysterical. I tried to ignore my freshly skinned knees, sore ankle, and jammed thumb and I got up and finished the race. Really???? I just couldn't finish the race with the pride that I deserved for having run it in the first place? No, that would have been too easy. However, my kids did not see me fall, they just saw their mom finish the run. They saw me take on a challenge and complete it. They really had no interest in watching me bask in dignity and self-respect. Actually, when all is said and done, seeing their home-made signs and feeling their tight little hugs around my legs was enough to make me realize that I did not need to watch myself bask in dignity and self-respect, either.
I am getting used to humility. More importantly, I am constantly shifting my understanding of pride. I am learning that my definition of dignity is really the quality of being worthy of esteem or respect DESPITE food stains, half-painted toes, obvious insanity, and skinned knees..
Monday, May 17, 2010
Open House
I love my home, even though most of the time it feels strange to own so many grown-up things. Matt and I are pretty certain that we are still teenagers masquerading in adult lives. Owning a washer and dryer or actually having rooms that we call the "kids' bathroom" and "the office" have forced us to come to terms with the fact that we ARE adults attempting to live the facade of an adult life. Needless to say, my home is a constant reminder of this grown-up life that I lead, but it also serves as a reminder of how things can change over the years -especially when there are kids around. Let me give you a tour ...
My decorating style is hard to label. We find value in furniture that can stand the test of time (which includes kids and a dog) and that can hide stains REALLY well. Our art collection may not be expensive, but it is priceless. We have a Dannan original in the dining area - quite the conversation piece, really. A wonderful blend of colors. Crayola washable paints on white poster paper, roughly torn at the top. It is an impressionistic portrayal of the play equipment in the back yard, and she and I are holding hands right in front. If you look to the right, you will see the spotted cow on the pantry cupboard. It is more of a demonstration of how the sponge can re-create the Americana appeal. And of course we cannot forget the random signs that have been posted by Madison, my eight-year-old, inviting us to her most recent production (Irish Dance Show, 6pm, on the back porch, $1.00 a ticket, the baby is free) or advertising the cause that is currently near and dear to her heart (Donate shoes for Haiti here). Yes, the artwork around our house may not sell for much, but it is quickly amounting to a priceless collection. Just go in that room we call "the office" and look at the stacks of Dayus Kid Originals I need to somehow sort through this summer.
Continuing on the tour, you will notice the odd choice in paint. The cracked drywall and gray chip out of the base of the stairs represent a decorative fad we call the "Daddy was wrestling with the kids and fell down the stairs" period. The colorful variety in lines as you move up the stairs are a bit smudged as reminders that in our house, even the Magic Eraser has a challenge.
Entering into the boys room there is a sign that reads "No Gurls Alowd" written in Josh's own hand. Inside, their sports-themed room takes second stage to the picture of SpongeBob and Mr. Crabs talking to a ghost. This one was too great for Josh to bring downstairs, he hung it in his room so that he could "see it every day when he wakes up". This room is a boy's domain - and a tender reminder that my soon to be six-year-old has created quite the identity for himself. I probably should mention that he can't crawl into bed for the night if his toys are in the wrong boxes. Ahhhh - a child that takes after my own heart.
Taking a turn, we pass by "The Office". You know, that room that reminds Matt and I that we have real-world responsibilities. Looking into the office you can see . . . you know . . . let's just skip this one. I think I will kick these papers to the side and close the door. There - my favorite way to clean that monster of a room.
The last room is pretty big. It has to be, my girls are so different in their interests that this room has become an explosion of little girl dreams, hobbies, and imaginative play. My four-year-old's decorating style will warm your heart, and make you a little nervous if you happen to be Type A personality (I happen to be speaking from experience). Dollhouse, stuffed animals, play food and kitchen, dress-ups, a tea party table, books, and costume jewelery strewn here and there as streamer-like decorations in case "anyone comes over to her room for a party". My favorite is the constant seat that her stuffed Mammoth, "Apple", who also bears the nickname "Lydia", takes at her perpetual tea party. Oh, recently Apple (aka Lydia) has been sporting a Dorothy wig and tutu.
The other side of the room is Madison's think tank. Books EVERYWHERE. A pink stain on the carpet from a failed science experiment. It mostly failed because I walked in on it - I am still not sure what made the concoction pink. A box of stencils so that she can easily make her Recycle labels. Three notebooks are on her desk: her book of original stories, her diary, and her book where she writes all her lists. On her shelves the blend of toys work to remind me that Madison is in-between the fantasy world of a little girl and the "cool" existence of a pre-teen.
That completes our tour. Please help yourself out and as you leave, pay no mind to the stacks of laundry or the scratched walls, or even the rubberbands and duct tape that are keeping cupboards and drawers closed and wires secured. It seems our one-year-old is a budding escape artist and locksmith. He is starting to leave his mark around our home as well.
Over the years I have changed my perspective on many things - my sanity has relied on it. I used to think, "This house is a mess!" Now I just tell myself, "This home doesn't look too bad considering that six people live here." It doesn't matter what room I am in, they all have the little artifacts and imperfections to remind me that a house creates chores, but a home creates opportunities to love, make memories, and grow.
My decorating style is hard to label. We find value in furniture that can stand the test of time (which includes kids and a dog) and that can hide stains REALLY well. Our art collection may not be expensive, but it is priceless. We have a Dannan original in the dining area - quite the conversation piece, really. A wonderful blend of colors. Crayola washable paints on white poster paper, roughly torn at the top. It is an impressionistic portrayal of the play equipment in the back yard, and she and I are holding hands right in front. If you look to the right, you will see the spotted cow on the pantry cupboard. It is more of a demonstration of how the sponge can re-create the Americana appeal. And of course we cannot forget the random signs that have been posted by Madison, my eight-year-old, inviting us to her most recent production (Irish Dance Show, 6pm, on the back porch, $1.00 a ticket, the baby is free) or advertising the cause that is currently near and dear to her heart (Donate shoes for Haiti here). Yes, the artwork around our house may not sell for much, but it is quickly amounting to a priceless collection. Just go in that room we call "the office" and look at the stacks of Dayus Kid Originals I need to somehow sort through this summer.
Continuing on the tour, you will notice the odd choice in paint. The cracked drywall and gray chip out of the base of the stairs represent a decorative fad we call the "Daddy was wrestling with the kids and fell down the stairs" period. The colorful variety in lines as you move up the stairs are a bit smudged as reminders that in our house, even the Magic Eraser has a challenge.
Entering into the boys room there is a sign that reads "No Gurls Alowd" written in Josh's own hand. Inside, their sports-themed room takes second stage to the picture of SpongeBob and Mr. Crabs talking to a ghost. This one was too great for Josh to bring downstairs, he hung it in his room so that he could "see it every day when he wakes up". This room is a boy's domain - and a tender reminder that my soon to be six-year-old has created quite the identity for himself. I probably should mention that he can't crawl into bed for the night if his toys are in the wrong boxes. Ahhhh - a child that takes after my own heart.
Taking a turn, we pass by "The Office". You know, that room that reminds Matt and I that we have real-world responsibilities. Looking into the office you can see . . . you know . . . let's just skip this one. I think I will kick these papers to the side and close the door. There - my favorite way to clean that monster of a room.
The last room is pretty big. It has to be, my girls are so different in their interests that this room has become an explosion of little girl dreams, hobbies, and imaginative play. My four-year-old's decorating style will warm your heart, and make you a little nervous if you happen to be Type A personality (I happen to be speaking from experience). Dollhouse, stuffed animals, play food and kitchen, dress-ups, a tea party table, books, and costume jewelery strewn here and there as streamer-like decorations in case "anyone comes over to her room for a party". My favorite is the constant seat that her stuffed Mammoth, "Apple", who also bears the nickname "Lydia", takes at her perpetual tea party. Oh, recently Apple (aka Lydia) has been sporting a Dorothy wig and tutu.
The other side of the room is Madison's think tank. Books EVERYWHERE. A pink stain on the carpet from a failed science experiment. It mostly failed because I walked in on it - I am still not sure what made the concoction pink. A box of stencils so that she can easily make her Recycle labels. Three notebooks are on her desk: her book of original stories, her diary, and her book where she writes all her lists. On her shelves the blend of toys work to remind me that Madison is in-between the fantasy world of a little girl and the "cool" existence of a pre-teen.
That completes our tour. Please help yourself out and as you leave, pay no mind to the stacks of laundry or the scratched walls, or even the rubberbands and duct tape that are keeping cupboards and drawers closed and wires secured. It seems our one-year-old is a budding escape artist and locksmith. He is starting to leave his mark around our home as well.
Over the years I have changed my perspective on many things - my sanity has relied on it. I used to think, "This house is a mess!" Now I just tell myself, "This home doesn't look too bad considering that six people live here." It doesn't matter what room I am in, they all have the little artifacts and imperfections to remind me that a house creates chores, but a home creates opportunities to love, make memories, and grow.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Meet My Therapist, the Road
Four months ago I started running. Well, actually, let me rephrase that. Four months ago, I started what had the potential of becoming a running motion. The holidays were over, my Wii Fit and I were not on speaking terms, and my pre-baby wardrobe started to look appealing again. Finances being what they are, I knew the prospect of new work clothes was thin, and even more apparent, I knew that I wasn't. So, I started to run.
It started as a walk-run. I would run until I couldn't breathe and then walk until I could, then run again. It turned into a jog. I could keep a steady pace and I felt happy that I could match the beat to a few of the songs on my IPod . . . even if they were "Take my Breath Away" and "Every Rose Has Its Thorn". Lately, I have turned my jog into a pace that actually gets me somewhere. This journey that starts each moment I find a window of time to run and stops when I turn the corner into my driveway, has taken me around my neighborhood and cross streets. However, I have started to realize that I am also logging mileage on another level, in my heart and soul.
It has been quite a year and half. What started as a BIG surprise in my life in April 2009 has now grown into a precious, chubby, blissful one-year-old boy. This unexpected miracle led to my decision to drop Grad school and the Administrative Credential program. I knew that I could return one day, I just did not want to miss any more of William's life than I had to. Shortly after God placed our beautiful William into our lives, he took my dad out. Shock, dismay, grief, sorrow, are a few of the words that I can attach to what followed. In fact, I can't think of diction that provides enough connotation to give a glimpse into the hole that was left in all that knew him, especially his family. I know that the memories are alive and vibrant. I now realize that I underestimated my memory. There is a lifetime of amazing moments and priceless words to draw from. Consider me crazy - but I would trade all of them to have Dad here again.
Needless to say, surprises, blessings, and tragedies such as these can take their toll. I knew that running would give me a time to collect my thoughts and worries, and keep me focused for a few more hours. Running, instead, has actually provided me an opportunity to collect my entire "being". I look back at my first days, IPod in hand and shoes ready to go, and I could not have anticipated the results of my new quest.
The road has become my therapist. It is predictable and it does not interrupt. It supports me, no matter how hard I pound on it. It helps me find the way and challenges me with its hills then gives me a downward slope when I could really use the break. Most importantly, it has been there for me as I have meditated (Playlist 1), Rocked-out (Playlist 2), or found my inner-child (Not really a playlist, the IPod sometimes shuffles to the kids' music). I feel peaceful when I am alone with my thoughts and when I am peaceful I feel connected with my dad, and when I am connected with that wonderful man and father, I can return from my run - yes, run - with a happy spirit. I know that I benefit from this state of mind. The real winners, however, are my kids and husband.
I run off the sadness, the stress of work, the anxiety that comes with having a large family, the angst caused by grudges that need to be let go, and the helplessness that creeps up on me and tells me lies like, "You can't handle it". Yup, the road is my therapist. Pretty inexpensive. Sessions vary from twenty minutes to an hour - depending on the path I choose to take and the time I can be away from the kids before things start to unravel or I miss them too much.
When I beat my personal time, find a song that would be perfect for Playlist 3, or see my kids and husband standing on lawn chairs to look over the fence and cheer me on as I near the house, I know that my running "sessions" are working for me.
I have three goals I would like to accomplish by the time I am forty: write a book, run a marathon, and compete on Dancing With the Stars. There is obviously one goal I may have to let go of. But, when I am on Dancing With the Stars, I am sure that a book deal will follow. The marathon? That is the other bonus - my therapy sessions with the road are also getting me a little closer to something that after having four kids, seemed highly unattainable. When I run my marathon - most likely ON my fourtieth birthday, I will be thinking of my dad the entire time . . . especially at the finish line.
It started as a walk-run. I would run until I couldn't breathe and then walk until I could, then run again. It turned into a jog. I could keep a steady pace and I felt happy that I could match the beat to a few of the songs on my IPod . . . even if they were "Take my Breath Away" and "Every Rose Has Its Thorn". Lately, I have turned my jog into a pace that actually gets me somewhere. This journey that starts each moment I find a window of time to run and stops when I turn the corner into my driveway, has taken me around my neighborhood and cross streets. However, I have started to realize that I am also logging mileage on another level, in my heart and soul.
It has been quite a year and half. What started as a BIG surprise in my life in April 2009 has now grown into a precious, chubby, blissful one-year-old boy. This unexpected miracle led to my decision to drop Grad school and the Administrative Credential program. I knew that I could return one day, I just did not want to miss any more of William's life than I had to. Shortly after God placed our beautiful William into our lives, he took my dad out. Shock, dismay, grief, sorrow, are a few of the words that I can attach to what followed. In fact, I can't think of diction that provides enough connotation to give a glimpse into the hole that was left in all that knew him, especially his family. I know that the memories are alive and vibrant. I now realize that I underestimated my memory. There is a lifetime of amazing moments and priceless words to draw from. Consider me crazy - but I would trade all of them to have Dad here again.
Needless to say, surprises, blessings, and tragedies such as these can take their toll. I knew that running would give me a time to collect my thoughts and worries, and keep me focused for a few more hours. Running, instead, has actually provided me an opportunity to collect my entire "being". I look back at my first days, IPod in hand and shoes ready to go, and I could not have anticipated the results of my new quest.
The road has become my therapist. It is predictable and it does not interrupt. It supports me, no matter how hard I pound on it. It helps me find the way and challenges me with its hills then gives me a downward slope when I could really use the break. Most importantly, it has been there for me as I have meditated (Playlist 1), Rocked-out (Playlist 2), or found my inner-child (Not really a playlist, the IPod sometimes shuffles to the kids' music). I feel peaceful when I am alone with my thoughts and when I am peaceful I feel connected with my dad, and when I am connected with that wonderful man and father, I can return from my run - yes, run - with a happy spirit. I know that I benefit from this state of mind. The real winners, however, are my kids and husband.
I run off the sadness, the stress of work, the anxiety that comes with having a large family, the angst caused by grudges that need to be let go, and the helplessness that creeps up on me and tells me lies like, "You can't handle it". Yup, the road is my therapist. Pretty inexpensive. Sessions vary from twenty minutes to an hour - depending on the path I choose to take and the time I can be away from the kids before things start to unravel or I miss them too much.
When I beat my personal time, find a song that would be perfect for Playlist 3, or see my kids and husband standing on lawn chairs to look over the fence and cheer me on as I near the house, I know that my running "sessions" are working for me.
I have three goals I would like to accomplish by the time I am forty: write a book, run a marathon, and compete on Dancing With the Stars. There is obviously one goal I may have to let go of. But, when I am on Dancing With the Stars, I am sure that a book deal will follow. The marathon? That is the other bonus - my therapy sessions with the road are also getting me a little closer to something that after having four kids, seemed highly unattainable. When I run my marathon - most likely ON my fourtieth birthday, I will be thinking of my dad the entire time . . . especially at the finish line.
Friday, May 7, 2010
What Motherhood Has Taught Me
Motherhood has taught me quite a few things. Even as a teacher, I have learned that life experiences are the lessons that have the most significant impact. In the school of "Motherhood" every day is a lesson.
There are lots of quizzes. It is really hard to study for this class because the curriculum keeps changing. You can stay up all night learning something new, and then the chapter test asks you an unexpected question. It is impossible to gauge your progress because you never get comments on your papers - and if you do get feedback, it is usually in the form of a little voice yelling about a recent injustice you have caused in his or her life. The class of Motherhood requires a multi-modal learner - you must be crafty, musical, spatially inclined, verbal, mathematical, and have survival instincts. There are science projects as you test hypotheses and look for variables, there are math tests as you attempt mental equations like:
6 carrots X 3 plates - 1 kid who will refuse to eat her carrot + the dog that will jump up and eat the carrot of the kid that actually likes carrots = Just toss some carrots on the plate and see what happens.
Some of my most memorable lessons have been:
1. How to save a cell phone from the toilet.
2. Little and not so little lies - a normal stage of childhood.
3. Splinter removal 101
4. Emergency Response Certification - When not to argue with the Paramedics
5. 5 simple steps to dressing a polly pocket in her ridiculously difficult clothes
6. Immediate Costume Ideas Level 1: Responding to the last minute reminder that it is a theme day at school.
7. Immediate Costume Ideas Level 2: How to make an entire costume with a glue gun.
8. Teacher Conferences and You - learning to translate phrases that really mean "Your child is a handful and I am losing control"
9. The Art of Ignoring the Tantrum - Even in Public
10. How to Maintain Patience MOST Of the Time
The test for the last one was a ringing phone, a crying baby, a barking dog, two kids fighting over the Wii, another kid yelling that she was finished going "Poo", and the neighborhood kid from across the street that wants to come over EVERY hour, ringing the door bell. I am not sure if I passed that one . . . We haven't been able to find one of the Wii remotes and the neighborhood kid still avoids eye contact with me.
These are just a few of the lessons that have kept me on my toes. I always strive to get good grades, but this class was more of a challenge than I could have ever expected. My teachers change all the time. I have actually found that my kids are my best professors. I am so blessed to have sisters and friends that inspire me as mothers. They are my favorite study-buddies. My mom, grandmas, aunts, and cousins are my tutors. There is not a Cliff Note version for this class - there are however, many unabridged texts, but I never have time for the assigned reading.
I looked ahead at the syllabus, and I know that I can expect other units:
1. Your Teenage Girls and Their Mood Swings
2. Mom, Can I Borrow the Car?
3. Helping your Child with Their Math Homework Beyond 3rd Grade
4. Parent Lectures: Organization and Delivery
While I have never received a report card from this class, over the years I have learned that my tests are graded on a more holistic scale. I have cards written by chubby little hands, everyday smiles and hugs, and words like "I Love You, Mom". I also embrace all their little accomplishments as the feedback that I am somehow on the right track. When I happen to "Ace" the pop quizzes, it is a really good feeling. I know that some of my tests and daily assignments won't be graded for years and years - but I can wait. I don't want to rush it.
One day, I will look back with a clearer idea of my overall grade, but right now, the feedback is few and far between. Regardless, the degree I earn from this class will be more powerful than any masters or doctorate. I will proudly frame it for all to see.
Happy Mother's Day to all my classmates, teachers, and guest lecturers. Gotta go - the baby is awake and recess is over.
There are lots of quizzes. It is really hard to study for this class because the curriculum keeps changing. You can stay up all night learning something new, and then the chapter test asks you an unexpected question. It is impossible to gauge your progress because you never get comments on your papers - and if you do get feedback, it is usually in the form of a little voice yelling about a recent injustice you have caused in his or her life. The class of Motherhood requires a multi-modal learner - you must be crafty, musical, spatially inclined, verbal, mathematical, and have survival instincts. There are science projects as you test hypotheses and look for variables, there are math tests as you attempt mental equations like:
6 carrots X 3 plates - 1 kid who will refuse to eat her carrot + the dog that will jump up and eat the carrot of the kid that actually likes carrots = Just toss some carrots on the plate and see what happens.
Some of my most memorable lessons have been:
1. How to save a cell phone from the toilet.
2. Little and not so little lies - a normal stage of childhood.
3. Splinter removal 101
4. Emergency Response Certification - When not to argue with the Paramedics
5. 5 simple steps to dressing a polly pocket in her ridiculously difficult clothes
6. Immediate Costume Ideas Level 1: Responding to the last minute reminder that it is a theme day at school.
7. Immediate Costume Ideas Level 2: How to make an entire costume with a glue gun.
8. Teacher Conferences and You - learning to translate phrases that really mean "Your child is a handful and I am losing control"
9. The Art of Ignoring the Tantrum - Even in Public
10. How to Maintain Patience MOST Of the Time
The test for the last one was a ringing phone, a crying baby, a barking dog, two kids fighting over the Wii, another kid yelling that she was finished going "Poo", and the neighborhood kid from across the street that wants to come over EVERY hour, ringing the door bell. I am not sure if I passed that one . . . We haven't been able to find one of the Wii remotes and the neighborhood kid still avoids eye contact with me.
These are just a few of the lessons that have kept me on my toes. I always strive to get good grades, but this class was more of a challenge than I could have ever expected. My teachers change all the time. I have actually found that my kids are my best professors. I am so blessed to have sisters and friends that inspire me as mothers. They are my favorite study-buddies. My mom, grandmas, aunts, and cousins are my tutors. There is not a Cliff Note version for this class - there are however, many unabridged texts, but I never have time for the assigned reading.
I looked ahead at the syllabus, and I know that I can expect other units:
1. Your Teenage Girls and Their Mood Swings
2. Mom, Can I Borrow the Car?
3. Helping your Child with Their Math Homework Beyond 3rd Grade
4. Parent Lectures: Organization and Delivery
While I have never received a report card from this class, over the years I have learned that my tests are graded on a more holistic scale. I have cards written by chubby little hands, everyday smiles and hugs, and words like "I Love You, Mom". I also embrace all their little accomplishments as the feedback that I am somehow on the right track. When I happen to "Ace" the pop quizzes, it is a really good feeling. I know that some of my tests and daily assignments won't be graded for years and years - but I can wait. I don't want to rush it.
One day, I will look back with a clearer idea of my overall grade, but right now, the feedback is few and far between. Regardless, the degree I earn from this class will be more powerful than any masters or doctorate. I will proudly frame it for all to see.
Happy Mother's Day to all my classmates, teachers, and guest lecturers. Gotta go - the baby is awake and recess is over.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
A Leader Is . . .
I was recently putting together a writing prompt for some students applying to become Peer Leaders and I came across a quote that made me smile: A leader is a leader because they can hide panic. This works on so many levels! At home, a mom has to be a leader and a calming influence. At school, a teacher has to be able to stifle the adrenaline and panic so as to maintain the control in the classroom. In the world, the ones that panic and run away usually aren't the ones that are followed.
I know that this saying was probably meant for leaders of men and women in battle, or great speakers trying to influence the multitudes towards an action that would undoubtedly end world suffering. But, I will keep it in mind at home and in the classroom - my battlefields.
When my 8 year old's teacher calls and lets me know that my daughter will be spending the rest of the week in lunch detention for faking amnesia for one full hour, I will hide the panic. When my 5 year old brings home his Kindergarten "Theme Bag", a tremendous honor that usually equates to one hour of homework, I will hide the panic. When my 4 year old daughter tells me that it will be hard to find one person to marry because all boys look handsome to her, I will hide the panic. And, when my 1 year old is well . . already 1 . . I will hide the panic. When my husband tells me that he is going to be playing golf with his buddies on a Sunday I will . . . okay, maybe sometimes I am just not meant to be a leader.
I am sure that the same ability to hide panic or fear should hold true as I teach. In all honesty, my main goal for most of my students is to teach them to panic. Maybe the quote should have another couple clauses:
A leader is a leader because they can hide panic.
A follower is a follower because they show too much panic.
The wanderer gets lost in the world because they never feel the panic.
I guess a little panic is a good thing, it fuels our actions. As for me, I will continue to hide it, that is until all those that I need to lead are dismissed from class or are sleeping peacefully in their beds.
I know that this saying was probably meant for leaders of men and women in battle, or great speakers trying to influence the multitudes towards an action that would undoubtedly end world suffering. But, I will keep it in mind at home and in the classroom - my battlefields.
When my 8 year old's teacher calls and lets me know that my daughter will be spending the rest of the week in lunch detention for faking amnesia for one full hour, I will hide the panic. When my 5 year old brings home his Kindergarten "Theme Bag", a tremendous honor that usually equates to one hour of homework, I will hide the panic. When my 4 year old daughter tells me that it will be hard to find one person to marry because all boys look handsome to her, I will hide the panic. And, when my 1 year old is well . . already 1 . . I will hide the panic. When my husband tells me that he is going to be playing golf with his buddies on a Sunday I will . . . okay, maybe sometimes I am just not meant to be a leader.
I am sure that the same ability to hide panic or fear should hold true as I teach. In all honesty, my main goal for most of my students is to teach them to panic. Maybe the quote should have another couple clauses:
A leader is a leader because they can hide panic.
A follower is a follower because they show too much panic.
The wanderer gets lost in the world because they never feel the panic.
I guess a little panic is a good thing, it fuels our actions. As for me, I will continue to hide it, that is until all those that I need to lead are dismissed from class or are sleeping peacefully in their beds.
It Is So Typical!
I have every intention of keeping up this blog. My kids don't seem to understand this as they take my energy each and every day. I need to work harder on reserving the energy to sit down and write . . . but wait, if I work harder then I will be taking the energy I would need and . . . whatever . . .
Last entry, the kids were sick. This entry, the kids are sick. It is pretty standard when you have four kids. Odds are in our favor that at any given time there will be an illness in our family. In addition, when one kid gets ill and passes it around the family the average incubation period of the virus pretty much guarantees that it will be one month until we are well for three days, when the next virus is brought home from school, the store, Tae Kwon Do practice, etc.
Since life goes on, so do we. Tonight as I was sweeping, hunched over my broom with half a broomstick (Josh recently broke it while attempting to tight-rope-walk), I was pondering the importance of finding the blessings amidst the burdens. Sick kids mean lots of cuddle time, an excuse to watch movies, a reason to not have to worry about homework. Spongebob really does take on a new meaning at 3am while you sit with your asthmatic son and wait for him to finish his breathing treatment.
But consider me crazy, I would kind of like a span of time where the medicine bottles do not line my counter. We are so close to dedicating a waiting room bench in the doctor's office to our family.
So, I used my half-broom to sweep the dust, and cheerios, and unidentifiable objects into the dustpan, which is actually much easier with a shorter broom handle, and I realized that each illness brings me another chance to let my kids know how they are loved and cared for. I can say this because I make sure that they do not hear the language I speak under my breath when I have taken a temperature only to realize that, yes, there is another fever in the house.
Last entry, the kids were sick. This entry, the kids are sick. It is pretty standard when you have four kids. Odds are in our favor that at any given time there will be an illness in our family. In addition, when one kid gets ill and passes it around the family the average incubation period of the virus pretty much guarantees that it will be one month until we are well for three days, when the next virus is brought home from school, the store, Tae Kwon Do practice, etc.
Since life goes on, so do we. Tonight as I was sweeping, hunched over my broom with half a broomstick (Josh recently broke it while attempting to tight-rope-walk), I was pondering the importance of finding the blessings amidst the burdens. Sick kids mean lots of cuddle time, an excuse to watch movies, a reason to not have to worry about homework. Spongebob really does take on a new meaning at 3am while you sit with your asthmatic son and wait for him to finish his breathing treatment.
But consider me crazy, I would kind of like a span of time where the medicine bottles do not line my counter. We are so close to dedicating a waiting room bench in the doctor's office to our family.
So, I used my half-broom to sweep the dust, and cheerios, and unidentifiable objects into the dustpan, which is actually much easier with a shorter broom handle, and I realized that each illness brings me another chance to let my kids know how they are loved and cared for. I can say this because I make sure that they do not hear the language I speak under my breath when I have taken a temperature only to realize that, yes, there is another fever in the house.
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