Me: (avoiding a situation) I'm just kind of bashful.
Friend: Aw, bashful! That's a really sweet way to say socially awkward and really anxious.
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Sitting in my classroom this morning, enjoying my 50 minute Friday morning plan time by discussing my students’ writing progress with my instructional coach, I noticed her breathtaking new bracelet.
Handcrafted by her little one, she proudly wore the red construction paper cuff, drawn on with orange markers, scotch-taped together at the seam. Upon complement of the bracelet, she explained that there was a coordinating arm band, too, but that one didn’t make it with today’s ensemble. What a proud little girl her daughter must have been, this morning when Mommy said she wanted to wear her new bracelet, and show it off to all of her teacher friends. This reminded me of when I was that proud little girl, handing my dad a necklace full of multi-color beads, strung together without a care for pattern or style. I had painstakingly dug through the bead bin at our house and filled that cord with the most beautiful beads for my daddy. Even the lettered beads that haphazardly spelled out things like “dog” or “dad” or even sometimes “abjheru” just because that was aesthetically pleasing to my little eyes. Round beads, square beads, flower and heart beads...green beads, orange beads, and even a few wooden beads, if he was lucky! Looking up at my dad, beaming, offering him this statement piece, he happily put it around his neck. Even though it hung to his belly button, and probably would have interfered with his daily tasks, he assured me he would love to wear it to work. I wonder if he said, about me, “She so little and cute, you can’t say no to her.” like my friend lovingly joked about her daughter. I’d watch out the window at a quarter-to-four, the time my dad would pull in the driveway and walk toward the door, coffee mug and lunchbox in hand, and scan hopefully for the necklace. Never, ever did he let me down. To this day, he will explain that he didn’t care one bit what his coworkers would say, and that he did, in fact, wear it all day if he said he would. Now, more recently, he has admitted to me, though, that he may have tucked it into his shirt...but that, of course was only so it didn’t get in his way while he worked. The ugly cry. That is why. Though I can be very dramatic, and can basically cry on demand (see previous blog post entitled "I'd Like to Stop Apologizing for Crying"), I learned long ago that my cry is an ugly cry.
I could never be a Days of Our Lives soap opera star, because let's face it, who would want to look at my red nose, sweaty upper lip, and swollen eyelids right smack in the middle of their daytime TV? No one. That is who. And that is why I have suffered from a "Dream Deferred." Just like every single high school athlete is not currently a professional athlete because of that one time they injured their knee junior year, and their performance just hasn't been the same since. Sometimes we tell ourselves whatever it is that we need to believe, to get through the day. During a lengthy writing assessment today I could sense my students getting antsy.
I asked them to pause their work, stand up, do some cross body stretches, jump up and down, and sing the ABCs. Half way through the song, which almost none of the 10 and 11 year-olds were too bashful to sing loudly, when the letters L, M, N, and O blurred together, one student shouted out "Elemeno is not one letter!" At this point the whole class erupted in genuine, deep down laughter as juvenile and innocent as saying "elemeno." In a world that asks kids to be responsible beyond their years, and grow up faster than they're ready for, it is absolute bliss to see the little kids in my students from time to time. Faced by media and social pressures, body image issues, finding who they are, and things like *gasp* puberty, it's not too bad a thing to forget about those for a minute, and let "elemeno" be one letter, even in 5th grade. When I graduated college and got my first job with a real salary, I felt like I was getting old.
When I adopted my first pet, actually signed the paperwork and took him to the vet on my own, I felt like I was getting old. When I lived completely alone for the first time, no roommates, no parental support, when I paid all of my own bills and did my dishes only if I felt like it, because there was no one else to complain about it, I felt like I was getting old. When I called AT&T to complain about our service and the DVR malfunctioning, (I have to keep caught up on my sit-coms) I felt old. When my friends started having parties at 2:00 PM so that it wouldn't interfere with nap or bedtime schedules, I really felt like I was getting old. But nothing was as much of a wake up call as what happened this morning. After rolling out of bed and stepping over the dog on the floor, I went to the bathroom and washed my face. Looking at myself in the mirror, I pulled out the makeup remover and grabbed a wad of toilet paper to get the remnants of mascara off. I dropped 3 drops out of the bottle and rubbed under my eyes. I looked into the mirror, dropped 3 more drops out of the bottle, and rubbed under my eyes again. I looked into the mirror, dropped 3 more drops out of the bottle, and furiously rubbed under my eyes one last time. I stood in front of the mirror, hands flat on the counter, and, squinting, moved my face closer and closer to examine what was happening. Slowly the words fell out of my mouth, "That's not mascara, those are my eyes." Is this how it happens? One day you just wake up and notice that your face has changed? Next I'm clipping coupons and wearing foam curlers to the store? I'm trading in Toms for orthopedic non-slip soles? Listening to Rod Stewart and talking about the good old days? (Actually, confession: I love Rod Stewart, so that part I can live with.) Is this how it happens? The first rule of fostering, if you have other dogs, is isolation.
This is isolation: 1. walk downstairs 2. get undressed 3. put on all new clothes 4. feed dog 5. medicate dog 6. take dog for walk 7. give dog lots of love 8. put dog back into crate 9. get undressed 10. re-dress in regular clothes 11. CLOROX WIPE EVERYTHING
13. repeat steps with other two resident dogs It is a LOT of work. So when we had a vet appointment for the new foster dog just two days after his arrival, we were hopeful that the vet would give us the green light to introduce him to our pack very soon. Then the dreaded cough began. The cough that meant we were in for several weeks of, not only, isolation, but additional medication, breathing treatments, and the constant fear that our dogs would catch the respiratory infection. Vet's orders: lots of rest, antibiotics, nebulizer, and fluids for infection, and every-other-day baths for a bacterial skin infection. How do you bathe a dog in the second floor bathroom, when he is banished to the downstairs in an effort to avoid exposure? You don't. You focus on healing and hope for the best. It has been two weeks now. The other dogs are already sick, despite our very best efforts (see steps above), and this little guy was crusty and scabby and smelly. Today, Atlas had his first bath. Preparing for this is another blog post entirely, but it is a milestone that I am really happy to have made it to. He stood trustingly in the bathtub as I sloughed scabs from his pink, inflamed skin. He licked my hands while I carefully rinsed his bald legs. He rested his head on my knee while I put cotton balls into his cropped ears, hoping not to let water in. I laughed at his pouty little bottom lip, exposing his drastic under-bite each time he opened his mouth. Moments like this, the milestones, the every day firsts that prove to me over and over again that the spirit of a dog is hard to break, they make all the extra steps worth it. We take a chance on an animal that we know nothing about, invite him into our house, take him from his worst (sometimes health-wise, sometimes behavior-wise), and teach him what it is like to be part of a family. Then, when he is ready, and we know it is time, we wish him a happy life, and we cry, and we let him go. Fostering saves lives. Pizza is for one of our first dates, at Gino's East, with a Groupon.
Pizza is for after grocery shopping, even when we've got plenty of food, but shopping is enough work for one night. Pizza is for cheat day that one summer we followed a really strict meal plan. Pizza is for every single one of my husband's birthdays, even that one birthday when I threw him a surprise party. Pizza is for our first Valentine's Day together, the day we first said "I love you." Pizza is for compromise. If I call, he pays. Pizza is for the last night in my old apartment, before I moved in to our home together. Sitting on the floor of my empty living room with a candle for light and a cardboard box for a table. Pizza is for solving conflicts and ending disagreements. Some of our hardest days have ended in pizza. Pizza is for "one last bad meal before we get back on track." Pizza is for our wedding day, surrounded by everyone we love, humbled by their grace in our lives. Pizza is for the next few days after our wedding too, since we were lucky enough to bring home a couple of boxes. But now, consistently, when grading and lesson plans are done, and the chores for the weekend are checked off the list, our old friend pizza is for Sundays. It's not always easy to put yourselves out there.
To snap-clap and heel tap your way to local bar fame. It always starts the same. A nice loud "wooooo" with hands up when you hear the first two cords of "Livin on a Prayer," and it takes you back. Then you're scanning the crowd for a friend who's swaying in her seat. Someone who may join in. You finger wag and tap-fists-in-front, tap-fists-in-back until she moseys on over. If you're feeling extra bold, you may belt out some Tom Petty slow jams, rocking side to side, arm in arm with the other faux-lighter in-the-air participants nearby. Keep on doing your thing, whether it's mom's night out, or your date is somewhere close by, ducking a little lower in his seat. I commend you, ladies, for enjoying your Friday night, and for not giving a darn who's watching. Love, The Casual Diner at the Table Across the Bar. Walking out of my classroom with tears streaming down my cheeks, I searched for a colleague. “One of my fish died!” I blubber to two other teachers who were startled by my emotional unraveling as they walked around the corner toward me. “What?” one asks to clarify, sure that this statement can not be connected to the reasoning for my grief. “My fish died, and I need help.” One offers a hug, though will not assist in the removal of the deceased fish from my classroom tank. Thankfully another steps up as I apologize profusely for my tears, grabbing tissue after tissue and listening to my coworkers joke about “giving him a proper burial” and “saying some words.” I am forever grateful that I feel things, though I have often thought I’d like to feel them a little less deeply. I’ve had countless moments where I am wholly unable to compose myself at times when others show no reaction. When I was a kid, my parents used to call me Sarah, short for Sarah Bernhardt, an old-timey actress whose dramatic antics I rivaled. Any time I would cry to the point of hyperventilating, I remember my mom saying “Put your arms above your head, just breathe!” My raw expression of what is inside is something that can cause me embarrassment at times. When I feel like I am reacting inappropriately to something or I perceive that others are viewing how I am acting as silly or childish, I feel the need to say I’m sorry, or even “I’m so ridiculous.” But the reality of it is, I don’t want to be sorry for allowing myself to be vulnerable. I don’t want others to view my reactions as over-reactions, because they are sincere. My husband always says to me that I have the biggest heart, and that is something I’m proud of. That means, though, that without a doubt, I will cry because my heart is mourning the loss of our nameless class pet, and I will cry when I think about how my students feel when they come to school hungry, and I will cry when I read powerful words (whether my class is sitting in front of me or not!), and I will cry when I experience the description of bitter sweetness that my friends feel when their children are growing. And I am grateful for that, even if it means that I will cry because I also empathize with characters from sit-coms, and I will cry if I spill my coffee in the morning when I'm running late, and I will cry when I see a really cute dog. These moments are the ones that define my sensitive spirit, and I would like to stop apologizing for that. When You’re a Chronic Over-thinker, Marry Someone Who is, Too: The Chronicles of Richard Garcia3/2/2017 We have lived in our gingerbread house bungalow on the corner for approaching 3 years now. Without fail, we still receive mail for the previous owner and for someone named Richard Garcia, who we think must live on the “South” equivalent to our “North” address. Usually under the addressee it reads “or current resident” which is our saving grace, because we know we can just throw it away.
Recently, though we’ve been getting mail that looks somewhat important, like things from insurance companies and tax information. So there we stood, my husband on one side of the island in the kitchen, and myself standing across from him, staring at the single envelope taunting us from the middle of the granite countertop. Most people would know exactly what to do in a situation like this, but for a couple of awkward over-thinkers, this was a nightmare. The exchange went something like this: Me: Well let’s put it back into the mailbox and the mailman will take it. Husband: But what if he thinks it’s our mail? And, like, we just didn’t take it out of the box yet? M: Oh, you’re right. H: I’ll get a post-it. M: Yes! Good plan. H: What should I write? M: … H: … An onlooker would have assumed that we were tactfully deciding how we would defuse the bomb in the center of the island. It continued: Me: What about, like “Not a current resident?” Husband: But then they might think he is a previous resident, and he hasn’t ever lived here. What about like “Wrong address?” M: But it doesn’t say the wrong address, it was delivered to the address on the envelope! H: (Panic beginning to set it, pushing the post-it and pen in my direction) Then you write it! The conversation escalated as more and more ridiculous ideas were being hurled above the envelope. He don’t live here! We don’t know him! We hate you, Richard Garcia! At least 15 minutes later, laughing as I cleared the mist from the corners of my eyes, I grabbed the pen and scribbled, “Not a resident here.” and dashed away in an effort to just end the madness, ready to shove it into the mailbox flap next to the front door. That was until he stopped me, questioning, “Do you really think we should put it out tonight? Or should we do it in the morning? I wouldn’t want it to blow away or something.” So this is my advice to you, if you’re a chronic over-thinker, marry someone who is, too. Sure, 95% of the time we get in the car to go to dinner, back down the driveway and head toward the main intersection still not knowing where we are going, we have to debate who will do a better job of calling the roofer, or the pizza delivery man, or the vet, or what would be the better angle at which to place the little bulldog cookie jar on the counter… but luckily I’ve got the perfect partner to over-think with, and lucky for Richard Garcia, eventually, we do diffuse most bombs together. |
Author5th grade teacher, wife, mama to my 3 magical babies, ally, advocate, doggy foster mom... just stumbling on. Archives
March 2022
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