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
