Teacher Nightmares

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Da dum. School supplies at the store. Da dum. Flipping the calendar to August. Da dum. Thinking of classroom themes, buying unnecessary but adorable stuff at The Teacher Store. Da dum. Going into the classroom, opening cupboards, and asking, “What is this junk and why did I think I needed it?” Da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum, ahhhhhh! Bring on the Teacher Nightmares.

I knew a retired teacher who STILL had teacher nightmares every August. In his 90s. That doesn’t make me feel happy. I have teacher nightmares all school year--about conferences, the Christmas Program, my principal observing me… But the worst ones are always in August.

My August dreams stem from this essential concern: Will it be a good school year? Thousands of questions run through my mind each night. Don’t even get me started on the night before school starts. Basically, I don’t sleep.

Over the past 20 Augusts, some dreams are a constant--I know I’m going to have them at some point. First, there’s the dream where the first day of school is moved up by a few days...and no one bothers to tell me. So, I wander in around 10:30am on the actual first day--in flip flops, old shorts, and a stained T-shirt--to find my principal in my chair and my students huddled together in the center of the room. I have yet to take down my desks and put them in groups, or move my bookshelves, or set up my classroom AT ALL. I stop in my tracks and the principal whispers through gritted teeth, “Where have you been? School started hours ago!” I have this dream repeatedly, until I get my classroom set-up. The only real variation is that, sometimes, I’m not wearing a shirt. That really adds to the mortification when I find my principal. “And where is your SHIRT?”

The second repetitive dream is the “huge, horrible class” dream. In this one, I’m teaching in some GIGANTIC space, like a pole barn, an auditorium, or in the hallway of a mall. I usually have around 200 students. I go to the front and try to get their attention--I never have a working microphone--and call their names for attendance. They’re running around, laughing, smacking each other with their backpacks, and ALL completely ignoring me. I end up standing on a table and SCREAMING at them at the top of my lungs. For the record, I have never gotten on a table to SCREAM at children. I don’t know why I dream it every single time, like that’s my go-to move. Also, I’ve always had a working microphone, and never more than 56 kids in my room at a time.

Those are my two main nightmares, but every August my anxieties like to throw in some new ones. Let’s see...

I’m ready for school, but my car doesn’t work, so I have to walk to work, and suddenly I can’t walk anymore, I have to crawl.

I’m watching a show while eating breakfast and I want to see the ending, so I don’t go to school until around 9:30. On purpose. I just think no one will notice.

I can’t find my classroom. I walk down long, dark, hallways and peek into cavelike entrances of classrooms, but none of them are mine. This is generally when I’ve had to move classrooms.

The funniest teacher nightmare wasn’t a First Day of School Nightmare, but I want to include it, because it’s hilarious. I was team teaching, and we met together with parents for conferences. We sat down across from the first set of parents and I saw my partner was wearing a very pretty, red blouse. I looked down, and I was topless. I grabbed a piece of paper, tried to cover myself up, and whispered, “Geez! You didn’t tell me we were wearing SHIRTS!”

This year, I don’t have a classroom of students; I’m a Reading Specialist. I was looking forward to no nightmares. Ha! Who was I kidding? I had my first nightmare the other night. I couldn’t find my classroom, I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing, AND I was late. When I woke up, I thought, “Well, at least I was wearing a shirt.”

The Gall of My Gall Bladder

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

It started in the fall, six years ago, after my youngest was born. I distinctly remember going Trick-Or-Treating downtown, walking with a kind of weird limp, holding my right side and pressing in. I didn’t want to ruin the night, so I was trying to just waddle along, staying quiet, but my bestie said, “What in the world is wrong with you?” I shrugged. I really didn’t know.

By the time we got home, the pain was excruciating. We put the kids to bed and The Hubby went downstairs to his office. I lay down on the floor in his office, curled in a ball, holding my side, crying. “It hurts!” I yelled.

“Go to the ER, for crying out loud,” The Very Rational Hubby replied.

“I can’t! I’ll have to get ready for a sub and I’m not ready for a sub! I can’t go to the hospital AND get ready for a sub! What if they want me to spend the night? Who’s going to get ready for a sub? Huh?” I spewed truth.

“Then stay home and whine.”

“It HUUUU-UUUURTS! I think it’s my appendix! What if it’s bursting, like my Grams’ did?”

“Then go to the hospital. You have two choices: go to the hospital and get this checked out, or lie here and whine. There’s nothing I can do for you.”

I hate it when he’s logical.

So, I went to the ER. My mom met me and held my hand while the doctors prodded and poked and questioned. They did a CAT scan, and discovered that most of my colon was inflamed. They couldn’t see my appendix, due to the swollen colon, but they were fairly certain it was something called Diverticulitis. The doctors gave me some paperwork, told me to schedule a colonoscopy, and sent me home.

I had an old person’s disease.

Diverticulitis generally emerges in one’s 60s or 70s. It’s pockets that develop in the interior of one’s colon, in which small food particles--such as seeds and nut pieces--get trapped. This causes infection and inflammation. The doctors prescribed two antibiotics, which then caused very painful swelling and aching in my legs. I ended up with three days off work. And my side still hurt.

I faithfully adopted the Diverticulitis Diet, avoiding nuts, seeds, legumes, peas, corn, rice… basically food. I increased my fiber. I had three more episodes of excruciating pain before my colonoscopy. Despite the lovely diet.

My colonoscopy showed a beautiful, clear colon without ONE SINGLE DIVERTICULA. Nothin’.

I did NOT have an old person’s disease. “So, what could it be?” I asked the doctor who gave me the results.

“I don’t know. It’s definitely not diverticulitis, though.”

Wow. Thanks. That’s SUPER helpful.

Being me, I took matters into my own hands. I got a book called The Virgin Diet, and put myself on a food elimination diet. I figured I had to be eating something that was doing this to me. My mother had “suddenly” developed lactose intolerance at age 40, and I’d always joked I better enjoy my dairy products because I’d be lactose intolerant by 40. Mom had gone to see a gastroenterologist, had a gazillion tests done, lost an insane amount of weight (she looked like a skeleton), and then did a food elimination diet on her own. The doctors wanted her to have more tests, to go on Valium for stress, all kinds of ridiculous things. All she needed to do was avoid milk.

So, since I was the ripe old age of 38, I rationalized this HAD to be some kind of food my body had decided was toxic. As I reintroduced foods, I found it was not eggs, not corn, not soy, a little bit milk and, much to my dismay, DEFINITELY GLUTEN.

When I’d joked about the lactose intolerance, I’d always said, “I can do without milk. There are plenty of milk replacements. But, oh, man, I’d KILL MYSELF if I was gluten intolerant!” I loved bread. And donuts. And cake. And cookies. And dinner rolls. And pizza. And pie. And honey wheat pretzels. And, did I mention bread?

But, when I had been OFF gluten for a significant amount of time, and I ate one tiny break-and-bake cookie I’d made for my class, I had the side pain for FOUR DAYS. Yup, FOUR. Pretty significant indicator that gluten was a big no-no. The Hubby put me on suicide watch.

After discovering gluten was THE ISSUE, I slowly figured out things I could eat. If you’re going through this, let me save you: don’t eat most of the “gluten free products” on the market. ESPECIALLY gluten-free bread. After I’d been gluten free for a few years, The Hubby figured out a recipe for flour, and he’s made bread, brownies, donuts, rolls, pancakes… Pretty much anything I’d want. And they’re delicious. Just don’t buy that stuff. I know it says delicious. It’s NOT.

After about two years of “happy” gluten free eating, I started getting what my family calls “glutened” again. This means that about half an hour after eating I would get really cold--cold INSIDE my bones--and fatigued--I’d fall sound asleep--and my bones would hurt. Oh, and of course I’d have side pain. Now the pain would sometimes be on my left side, or gurgle back and forth. The Hubby began watching my face after I’d eat and he’d say, “Oh, geez. Did you get glutened?” Sometimes we’d be out somewhere and we’d have to go home. Okay, lots of times.

The super frustrating part was that I wasn’t eating gluten. At least, I didn’t THINK I was. I started using an app on my phone that scanned ingredients and we discovered this about gluten: IT’S EVERYWHERE. It’s in Simply Lemonade (preservative), Vitamin Water (vitamin D), deli meat (holds the meat together), cheese, gum… It was ridiculous. I also realized that my body was beginning to identify other non-gluten “foods” as gluten: artificial sweeteners, soy, MSG, and carrageenan (“Wheat of the Sea”). I also had to be careful how much sugar I consumed. My doctor--who I think is a genius--sent me to a Functional Medical Practitioner--a more holistic doctor--to try and deal with all of this. My poor body was attacking everything I’d eat, as well as parts of itself.

This would go on for several years. I’d get “better,” where I’d go months and months without getting sick, and then I’d get to a point where I couldn’t eat anything. This past February, I hit my lowest low. I was getting sick every day, no matter what I ate. Getting through the work day was exhausting and excruciating. My in-laws encouraged me to go to U of M, to see a specialist, and take care of this once and for all.

So, I did. Now, some people have excellent experiences at U of M. I was not one of those people. I was put through a series of humiliating, uncomfortable, sometimes incredibly painful procedures, both in Ann Arbor and locally. Nothing ever showed anything wrong with me. Eventually, I ran out of sick days, and I went on medical leave, hoping I could take a loan of sick days from other staff members. I stayed in bed, I drank bone broth, I ate farm fresh eggs, and I waited to figure something out.

Finally, my friend, Katie, listened to the story and said, “Girl, it’s your gall bladder.”

“No,” I said. “I’ve had every test. I passed them all. That’s not it.”

“Me, too.” Katie replied knowingly. “I’m telling you, it’s your gall bladder. You don’t need it anyway. Just get it out.”

I talked to my doctor, talked to a surgeon, talked to my mother (“Your grandmother had hers out at 45!”), and was harassed daily by The Hubby (“Get the stupid thing out!”). I scheduled a surgery. I was not convinced.

In fact, as the hospital staff was wheeling me into the operating room, I was trying to think of a way to escape. Just before they’d shown up, I’d developed a terrifying paranoia, and I said to The Hubby, “We have to get out of here! Let’s go. C’mon! Help me up!”

Luckily, he didn’t help me up, I didn’t escape, and the gall bladder came out. Later THAT DAY, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months: I felt like ME. Five days later, I got to the Tigers game with my son. Seven days later, I was completely convinced, and I was running errands and raising kids like nothing had ever happened. It’s amazing.

Here’s the craziest part: I’ve had some gluten. Yeah, you heard me. GLUTEN. I was never diagnosed with Celiac Disease, so there wasn’t really a reason that gluten should be a problem. I’ve actually tried a little, and I’m not even dead or anything.

So, the moral of this story is: if you still have your gall bladder, just get it out. You don’t even need it! Those things are evil, I tell ya. They have a lot of gall!

I Have One of Those Husbands

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

So I have one of THOSE husbands. You know the kind. He does all of our laundry. He plans our meals and cooks dinner every night. He does the dishes without complaining. He reads with the kids and plays endless games of catch with our hyper son. He pays all our bills. He gets our groceries while I take the kids to swim lessons. He mows the lawn, and all the "common areas" in our subdivision. He vacuums and cleans bathrooms and reads teacher newsletters and fills out permission slips and checks homework. He buys me presents I didn’t even realize I wanted, exposes me to information I didn’t even realize I wanted to know, gets me to laugh when I feel like sobbing, and makes the best gluten free baked goods on the planet. Yeah, one of THOSE guys.

Now, some women are probably saying, “How did you do this? How did you get him to be like that?” All I can respond is that he came this way. He really has not changed much in the thirteen years I’ve known him. Like, he still takes the hand towel off the hanging rack, dries his hands, and leaves the towel on the counter. I don’t think he’s ever going to change that. Although, let’s be real, how big a deal is that?

You see, people don’t change a lot from when you first meet them, or, at least, not in any of the ways YOU try to change THEM. For example, I brought to this marriage forgetfulness, the ability to stretch a 200 word story into 1,000 words, and a bleeding heart that wants to take home every child whose home is not ideal. None of these have changed. In fact, they’ve probably gotten worse over time. But The Hubby has accepted these flaws, because with them I’ve brought my passionate love for our family, my laughter at his EVERY joke--no matter how bad, my work ethic, and my tenacity to be a ferocious advocate for our kids. These are things I believe he loves about me and, when I’m droning on and on, maybe he thinks about one of those qualities to get him through the moment.

I have been really sick this spring, like lie-in-my-bed-and-moan sick, and I’ve been absolutely useless. Generally, The Hubby and I work together as a team. My mother-in-law has often remarked about what a well-oiled machine our morning routine is. This spring, everything has fallen into The Hubby’s lap, and he’s had to do my jobs as well as his own, all the while worrying about what he can do to help me. I hate it. I hate not helping. I hate hearing the sounds of my family going on around me and not being able to take part. I hate seeing him get more and more stressed, and there’s nothing I can do to help. More than being sick, I hate not being one of THOSE wives, who is an excellent partner to her husband in this career we call life. And, I’m sure you can guess his response, “You just worry about getting yourself better.”

So I have one of THOSE husbands. One of those excellent, superhuman, generous, fabulous husbands you rarely actually hear about. I have one of those. And I thank God every day that I do.

The Halls Are Not Handy

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Once when I was doing dishes at my in-laws’ house, their garbage disposal splash guard came off. Eric and I ran to Lowe’s, got a new one, and put it in with no trouble. So, when our guard began shedding chunks of itself, I thought the fix would be a slam dunk. I mean, I don’t want to brag, but Eric and I have replaced the ‘boot’ to our washing machine TWICE (by watching a YouTube video). I truly believed it would be a five minute deal.

That was my first mistake. I literally thought, “Oh, I’ll just slip this in here real quick before I clean the sink.” I have never, in my 43 years of life, had a home improvement project take five minutes. I’m not sure what possessed me to believe it this day, when we were both working like fiends to get the house cleaned for company. Stupid. I know that now. But, on this day, I was just going to “pop it in there” really quick. I pulled and pushed on the old guard. Not budging. I skimmed the box of the new one--who READS directions when you can skim?--and it said just shove it into the hole in the sink. I did that, but thought, “Hhmm, that doesn’t seem right.” It wasn’t tight enough to stay put, and came out easily when I pulled up.

At this point, I decided the problem was the old ring. I put on rubber gloves, grabbed, pulled, tried to shove a bread knife between the rubber ring and the metal of the sink... that sucker wasn’t going anywhere. Eric came into the kitchen to grab something and said, “What, are you doing that right NOW?” I chose not to respond. “Look it up on YouTube,” he told my mind-your-own-business face.

So, I looked it up on YouTube. Seriously, you can find EVERYTHING on there. I found a short video, which involved removing the actual disposal. Nope, not doing that. I went back to pushing, pulling and prying. By now, I had pulled off just about every sliver of “guard”. Staring down into the gaping hole, I realized Bob the Handyman had a point: I needed to remove the disposal.

Bob showed how you could easily loosen the disposal, slip off the old ring, slide on the new one, and reattach. He forgot to mention the thing weighs about the same as a toddler elephant. In addition, maybe there are plumbing fixtures more difficult to reach and maneuver than a garbage disposal, but I have never worked on any of them. This project seemed to require removable body limbs. I was all arms and knees and feet, but nothing could get at the splash guard while holding the disposal up at the same time. So, I did what any amatuer handyman idiot does when he/she has made a stupid move--called for reinforcements.

To say Eric wasn’t happy would be an understatement. I’m fairly certain explicatives were exchanged on both sides. The actual conversation need not be repeated. Just please realize that I WAS wrong, and stupid, and I KNEW that, but it was a little too late to go there. Because the thing was heavy, and it was already disassembled, and now pipes from its side were completely OUT and they smelled like rotting flesh and three-day-old vomit. I’m pretty sure that creepy goo-stuff from “Stranger Things” was in there. Anyway, I digress.

Eric pretzeled himself around me and the cupboards and held the disposal, while I removed the ring, realized the new ring would NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS fit the spot because it was considerably smaller, reattached the old crappy ring, and tried to put the disposal back on. Again, our exact conversation need not be repeated. One or the other of us may have passed out from the smell. And, we could NOT get it back on.

Generally, at this point, the Halls contact our good friend, Jim. He comes to save us in times of desperation like changing a tricky halogen light bulb and putting a folding closet door back into its groove. The good news is he doesn’t charge $75 for coming out, like the plumber who showed us there’s a switch on the garbage disposal if you ‘blow its fuse’. So, we contacted Jim with our Batsignal (he’s off the grid, people; don’t bother trying to look him up). No response. We were in serious trouble.

Finally, we did what we Halls do best in situations like these: we shoved it REALLY HARD. Believe it or not, it actually worked. We got that sucker up there and I twisted and it was back in place! I put the new splash guard in from the top, like it was supposed to go (even though I still don’t think it looks right), and we were in business! Until we weren’t.

After washing the sink, I noticed we had a drip. Okay, a leak. A big leak. A going-to-rot-the- cupboard-if-left-alone leak. We repeated the explicative-blame argument and tried pushing and pulling some more. Then we watched Bob the Handyman together and noticed, “Hey, that metal thingy there is way closer to this metal thingy here in Bob’s video.” Eric grabbed the screwdriver, I pushed up with my pinkies (nothing else could reach), and we tightened that baby until it’s metal thingies touched.

A week later, still no leak. Sure, our splash guard has to be pulled out each time you want food in the disposal, but no flaps of plastic are going in, and no water is shooting from the bottom. Progress. But if you need a home project done, I wouldn’t summon us with your Batsignal.

Teacher Snapshots

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

In my twenty years of teaching, I’ve taken lots of pictures. But the best ones are inside my head, where I can review them whenever I need inspiration or a really good laugh. (*Kids’ names are changed.)

On the last day, Casey comes out the bus doors and schwicks to me like a magnet. She wraps her skinny arms around my waist, her legs around my leg, and buries her face into my stomach. “Casey, honey, you have to get on the bus. I love you, too. Now, sweetie, let go.”

“NOOOOO! I don’t WANT to go to SECOND GRADE!” she wails. “I want you to be my teacher FOOOOR EEEEEVER!”

Click.

Me: “Okay, when you want to add a suffix to a word with a common vowel sound, you have to double the consonant.” Kids watch very seriously as I write on the whiteboard. “See, like at the end of swim. I have to put two m’s for swimming. Okay? And if I want to change clap. I have to double the consonant. So, when I change it to clapped, I can’t forget THE PP. Got it? Don’t forget THE PP. That’s very important.”

Five years later… Katelyn: “Hey, Mrs. Hall, don’t forget THE PP. Ha!”

Click.

In the hallway with Brian. “What’s wrong, buddy? You’re so sad today. What can I do, huh?”

Brian pulls me to the ground, climbs in my lap, encircles my neck with his arm and pulls me very close. “They don’t want me. My mom’s gonna live with her boyfriend from the computer and my dad is gonna stay home and they don’t want me. They were fighting over who had to keep me. She says her boyfriend doesn’t like kids and he says my face will make him think of her dumb face. They don’t want me. Can I come live with you?”

Click.

Me: “Ladies and gentlemen, I was so impressed at that assembly. I watched kids MUCH OLDER than you who were being disrespectful and rude. YOU kept your hands to yourselves, your eyes on the speaker and your lips zipped, unless the guy was funny, which he really was. I was so proud of you. I feel like, uh oh, it’s coming, there’s nothing I can do…” (I climb on top of my teacher table) “DANCE OF JOY!” (I dance with ridiculous arm flailing, leg kicking, and booty shaking.)

Click.

Me: “Okay, does anyone know the story of these underwear on the floor? No, seriously, these underwear right here by my table. Anybody? Is everyone still wearing underwear? Just do a little check. Anyone? Hhmmm. I wonder why these underwear decided to come to OUR classroom after they grew legs…”

Click.

I’m at my teacher table with a small group. Hayden puts his hand on my shoulder, waiting for my attention. When I turn to talk to him, he absentmindedly rubs his hand up and down my arm. Just petting me with love. He has told me that, when he becomes a professional baseball player, he will buy me a lime green convertible VW bug. What a great kid.

Click.

Crystal is crying her eyes out, because someone said her shirt was too short. Me: “Now, we’ve discussed this. You only get a certain amount of tears in your life. Are you SURE this is worth it? You may need those later in life when you find out your 2nd grade teacher has been moved to a nursing home. Don’t you want to save those tears?”

Crystal wipes her face on her sleeve, takes a deep breath and says, “Yes. I will need them for that. Thank you.”

Click.

Me: (finishing up directions for writing workshop) “Okay, peeps, a-one, a-two, a-you know what to do! Write!” Alexis comes straight to me and looks at me with sparkling eyes and an open face. “Yes, ma’am, how can I help you?” I ask.

Alexis squeezes my middle until I think I’ll burst. “I just needed to hug you some more. I’m good now.”

Click.

They Like Me; They REALLY Like Me!

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

As an early elementary teacher, I routinely receive love notes from my students. “I love you so much.” “You are so pretty.” And one that makes me laugh: “You are the best teacher ever!” (I laugh, because they’ve generally had two or maybe three other teachers in their young lives!) Hugs are a typical part of my day, often turning into “GROUP HUG!” with several children piling on. In first and second grade, kids will still hold my hand as we walk down the hallway--giving me the chance to give them a few special squeezes. On the papers they hand in, kids often write me little notes, surrounded by hearts, of their undying love for me. In early elementary, kids adore me, and I know they’ll miss me when they move on to the next grade.

But move on they do. They go to third, fourth, fifth...and then they leave my building. Occasionally, there are reasons for them to come back to my building and do something: help a teacher, participate in an assembly, work with students. During these visits, my heartstrings pull and I think (okay, I probably usually say,) “Oh, look at him. That’s my ___ (fill in the blank with a name, usually some sort of goofy nickname like Scooby or Laneybug or Spartacus) right there!” Sometimes these kids will come visit me, give me a hug, chat with me for a minute or two. They don’t know that it means the world to me. They don’t know that I still hold them in my heart just as tightly as I did when they were in my class, and that I want to reach out and hold them tightly, just one more time. I try to play it cool, but I’m sure I don’t. These are my kids, my babies, and it creates both pride and pain in me as they grow up.

Once they near the end of their education, most of my students have attached to a high school teacher and whatever tight knit relationship we had waaay back is tucked into their hearts, a sweet memory. A few continue to say hi, stop by my classroom, give a hug. A couple have even invited me to their graduation open houses. I try not to seem like a stalker, but I LOVE being invited to these. YOU remember ME? After all these years?? My husband has been invited to countless open houses and I’m always jealous, though very proud of him.

But this year, THIS YEAR, something incredible happened. Not only did I get invited to open houses, but THEY remembered me. Not just one or two. THE CLASS. The class remembered me by voting me the Inland Lakes Teacher of the Year. It is an honor that I’m not sure any other award could top. The fact that these students, who have experienced ten years of other teachers, thought back to their time with me and voted for me, for ME! It’s a beautiful thing, a long-stretching hand-squeeze back to me.

Unfortunately, I was too sick to attend the service and accept the award. But this becomes another lovely part of the story. The Hubby found out during the day of the ceremony that I was to receive the award. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to accept it, he contacted my teaching partner and arranged for five of my current students to go in my place. They got all dolled up, waited patiently through a service they probably didn’t understand, and accepted the award in my honor. It was a fantastic “circle of life” of my twenty years in education. My kids went to a ceremony and accepted an award for me from my kids. I hope they all know, all my kids, how very tightly I hold onto them in my heart, throughout their lives, and forever. Thank you, Inland Lakes Class of 2017, for loving me back.

Senior Year Blues

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Our daughter is finishing up her junior year in high school and the other night she said to me (in a huff), “Ugh! I wish I was just an adult already!” She probably doesn’t believe this, but I vividly remember that feeling.

To be honest, I hated high school. Not every minute, but a large part of it. I had a few really good, close friends, but didn’t fit into any particular clique. I was in band for a while, did yearbook for one semester, “played” golf one season (I was never even in a match. All I managed to do was get hit upside the head with a seven iron during practice once.), but I never really latched onto one activity that made me feel like I belonged. What I loved to do most in high school was write, which is neither a sport nor a group activity, and so I ended up alone in front of my word processor (yes, Emma, this was before laptops) “talking” to characters in my stories.

My entire senior year probably consisted of one giant eye roll and huffy breath at my parents for their rules, their old fashioned ideas, their irritating need to know my whereabouts EVERY WAKING MINUTE. Geez. My dad referred to my mother and me as The Porcupines, because we’d prick one another if we got too close. I let them know whenever I could that I was SO READY to get out of there.

But what I didn’t realize, of course, was that was it. That was the end of my childhood. Once I entered college I had obligations and rules that ADULTS had. After graduation I didn’t lie across the foot of my parents’ bed and talk to them anymore. I didn’t watch TV in my pjs with them. In college--or worse, in my first house--I never heard my mom yell from their bedroom, “Charlie! Come to bed!” I had to pay my own bills and figure out my own menus for the week and do my own laundry and think about what in the world I was really going to DO with my life for the next sixty or seventy years. I had to grow up, which was what I wanted, but not really.

I hope Emma doesn’t spend her senior year that way. I hope she gets involved in some activities (she’s already done cheer, drama, robotics, and marching band, which is more than I EVER did) and has fun with her friends and lies across the foot of our bed to tell us stories. I hope she hangs out with her brother and sister (I didn’t have any to enjoy) and watches TV in her pjs and savors one more year without adulting. I hope she ENJOYS the end of her childhood, so that, when that door closes, she can sigh with contentment and a new purpose looking ahead. I wish I had. I feel like I slammed that door somewhere in my junior year, only to be stuck in a miserable hallway, waiting for the door to my REAL life--adulthood--to open. It was a very hard year, battling for my independence, and it was really quite a disappointment when I finally got it. All that arguing to be my own person, to make my own rules, to stay up as late as I wanted, and I find that I really just want to go to bed at 8 o’clock anyway.

Saturday Bonding With the Boy

Originally published in the Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Last Saturday, our youngest had a birthday party, so my husband left early with her and worked in his classroom. Our oldest was working. That left me alone with the boy. All I could think was, “Oh no. Oh-no-oh-no, oh no!” Lately, he’s been treating me like I’m sub-human, a giant wart on the foot of his life, or--as his favorite Ninja Turtle would say, “On the B-Team.”  He’s not only sassy, he is demanding and belligerent to me. What were we going to do together all day? Especially since I knew I was going to feel sick.

Basketball, I thought. First, we watched some of the UNC-Gonzaga championship game. Ben impressed the pants off of me with his knowledge of the players (both “our team,” UNC, and theirs), as well as the coaches. I have no idea how many times he’s already seen this game, but he enthusiastically watched the first half--cheering, pointing out excellent plays, and making jokes like, “Hey, there, CorduROY!” (To the UNC coach, Roy Williams.) At the half, we went upstairs where I fell asleep on the sofa and Ben reenacted the first half of the game, a one-man show up and down the hallway.

After we finished the second half, well, what could we do but have ice cream for dinner? We swung together on the bench swing for a while, admiring the new layout of the place’s patio, then decided to go to the public beach, where we could sit in the car, look at the lake, and talk.

“Mom, what was your favorite vacation?”

“Hands down, taking you to Disney. Do you remember that trip, Bud?” I was pleased to hear he remembered a lot about seeing all the characters. He talked about Woody pointing to his Buzz Lightyear shirt and then to Buzz, and Ben felt like maybe he was going to pee his pants. I asked him what he remembered about the Playhouse Disney show, and he remembered some of the songs, and that the usherette behind us really liked us (specifically Ben, because he was hilarious to watch).

“Do you remember about Goofy?” I asked. He didn’t. So I told him that, during the show, he (Ben) stood up and yelled, “Goof! Goof, it’s me, Ben! Goof! Come here, I gotta tell ya something!”

Ben thought that was great. “Oh, just wait,” I said. “It gets better.” I reminded Ben about telling him that Goofy was working, and he couldn’t come over just then. He had a show to do, and we couldn’t interrupt. But, we’d find him later, and he’d be able to talk to Goofy personally. “So the next day,” I told Ben, “we saw Goofy at a different park, and you zoomed over to the line to see him. You bounced back and forth, impatient. When we were finally at the front of the line, you ran up to Goofy and screamed, ‘Goof! It’s me, Ben! I gotta tell ya somethin’!’ Goofy leaned over and lifted his ear. You whispered something and then smiled at me triumphantly. Next we got your picture taken and an autograph, and that seemed to satisfy you.”

“So what’d I say?” Ben asked, his face lit up with the memory of being that three-year-old surrounded by the magic of his friends in REAL LIFE.

“I have no idea.” I said. “You wouldn’t tell me. When I asked, you said, ‘Mom! It’s between me and Goof!’ And of course, Goofy was sworn to secrecy!”

We laughed and laughed and hugged and relived the moment as the sun sparkled on the lake. Too soon, Eric texted that he was home, and we buckled our seat belts to return to regular life. As I was driving home, Ben said, “Hey, Mom, we should do this more often.”

Yes, son, we should.

I've Got a Pocketful of Sunshine

Originally published in Cheboygan Daily Tribune...

Our youngest, Becca, can be a burst of sunshine. She’s one of those little girls who loves wearing dresses--does it twirl?--and skips instead of walking everywhere she goes. Her hair, unlike mine EVER, has beautiful waves and little tendrils that curl around her face. Her eyes are giant sapphires blinding you with their light. And when she laughs, oh, it fills your soul.

Now, don’t get me wrong. She can be a nightmare. Just this morning, Ben was playing “Let It Be” --his calming technique--you don’t mess with “Let It Be.” Unfortunately, at the exact same moment, Becca wanted to reread her new favorite Mo Willems book I Love My New Toy, which she can read ALL BY HERSELF. I tried to convince her to whisper the book, even the parts where the characters are clearly yelling (nice move, Mo Willems), but that would not fly. So, let’s see how this went. Uh, Ben was singing, Becca yelled part of her story, Ben yelled at her to be quiet because he was CALMING DOWN, Becca ran to me and puddled herself on the floor screaming and crying. Yup. 6:32 a.m. in our house. Pretty typical. So, as I was saying, she can become a slobbering mess of melodrama in a matter of seconds, but she has moments of heaven that more than make up for that.

One such moment is The Nightly Cuddle. On my Mother’s Day poster, Becca stated “My mom is really good at cuddling me.” I would beg to differ. I have cuddled all three of my kids as they dropped off to sleep, and I would say that it is BECCA who is good at cuddling ME. Becca pulls me in close and wraps her skinny arm around my neck, pulling my forehead in so we’re “touching heads.” Touching heads was her idea, her insistence, from a very young age. And there is something so intimate, so tender, so endearing about “touching heads.” Even when I’m too sick to get out of my bed and go cuddle in hers, Becca and I cuddle and touch heads, and I’m really not sure who needs it more.

Then there’s her storytelling. Becca is always narrating a story. Always. When she was a toddler, her two best friends were her hands, Nina and Shakkah. They were involved in many great dramas in the car, in her bed, in the living room, or on the swingset. One time, Nina even choked Becca. That was when we really worried about whether or not her multiple personalities were getting out of hand. We haven’t seen Nina and Shakkah lately, but Becca gets very involved in her Barbies, her babies, and all her dolls.I love watching the gentle way she mothers her babies, swaddling them, kissing their cheeks, holding them on her hip. I hope she’s mimicking me, some deep seated memories of how I cherished her infanthood.

Most of all, Becca is my sunshine because she loves ME the best. If I’m feeling bad or sad, she hugs me, kisses me, brings me a blanket, or puts her tiny hand inside mine with a grip so fierce, I think we could actually take on the world together. If I’m doing a chore, she’s willing to help hold the garbage bag or wipe the dishes dry or put the clothes in the drawers, just to be with me. “We’re having fun, right, Mommy?! Girlfriends!”

It is in these sunshiney moments I wish she could be six for an eternity. That she would never have to grow up and out and away. That we could “touch heads” every night before we go to sleep. I’ll try to treasure it now. I already know how fast it goes. Yes, Boo, we’re having fun. Girlfriends! Forever.