Some things never change.

I was out of the classroom for a whole year. While I was gone, I fretted that upon my return, things would be horribly different, new, foreign. The weeks leading up to the start of school were sleepless and anxiety ridden as I chewed my lips and paced the floor trying to plot my courses and plan every minute of the days ahead of me. I felt surprisingly like a first time teacher all over again. Until today. Today I walked back into that room and it felt like home. A few things are different, like the tardy and cell phone policies (which are ever changing and often hardly enforced) and some of the faces walking the halls. But that feeling, that sense of purpose, that knowledge that what I do here matters, those never change. I've never been more grateful for, more humbled or excited by that than I am this year. It's good to be home.

Ten.

Dear John,

Ten years ago, at this hour, I was laying on a sleeping bag on my mother's livingroom floor, listening to my very drunk brother nattering in my ear. He went on and on and on about what it means to be married, how hard it is to be a good partner, how much work having a successful relationship is. Having never actually accomplished ANY of those things, I told him to take his drunk ass to bed so I could get some sleep, lest I have bags under my eyes the next day. I threatened to beat him about the head with my shoe if he didn't let me get some sleep. He waxed philosophic for a few more minutes, kissed me on the forehead, told me he loved me and was happy for me, and stumbled off to pass out in our other brother's room. I laid there for a long while thinking about all he'd said, marveling at how he could know all of those things well enough to say them to me, and yet his own relationships were nothing short of disasters for the most part.
I eventually fell asleep, only to wake with the sun in order to prepare for our wedding. As I moved through the day, preparing to say my vows and begin a life in tandem, I wasn't nervous. I wasn't anxious. I was freaking. tired.
As I stood at the end of the aisle, waiting for the Star Wars theme to begin so I could take my brother's arm and make my way toward marriage, I punched him in the arm and called him an asshole. Then I told him I loved him, and thanked him for the pep talk. We marched down the aisle to you.
As the minister spoke the words I'd carefully crafted, I didn't hear her. I didn't see her. I didn't hear or see anyone but you. I stifled delirious giggles and sucked back tears of exhaustion, waiting for her to say that I was married to you. When those horrible fake nails and that damned twine I insisted on tying around our vows conspired to frustrate me, I let the tears loose and sobbed, surrendering to the fatigue and the moment. I don't think a single person in the audience understood a word I said for a good five minutes. I nearly lost my shit in front of God and everyone, but you reached across the empty space between us and wiped the tears from my cheeks and everything was right with the world once again.
The rest of the ceremony and reception is kind of a blur. I remember dancing down the aisle to Queen's "Another One Bites The Dust" much to the chagrin of every other adult in attendance, and not caring that we couldn't dance without tripping over each other. I remember dancing alone in the middle of the dance floor with you, doing the Time Warp with my friends, and shaking lots of hands. I remember Berta falling, drunken groomsmen getting up to no good, and a serious shortage of beer. But mostly, I remember being with you.
It's been ten years. Much of that time is a blur as well. My brother is gone, but I've come to realize that everything he said to me that night was true. This marriage, this partnership, has been hard, and rewarding, work. We've both gotten new jobs, new careers. We've bought a house. We've become older, wiser, better people. We've created a family. This life we've made, in some ways so much like we'd always planned and in some ways so very different, is a beautiful one. In all the memories I've collected over the last ten years, those that are strongest are the ones I made with you.
It hasn't always been easy, and it's far from perfect, but I can't imagine having made these memories with anyone other than you.
Happy anniversary,
Boo

Holy shit 2 months!

I can't believe it's been two months since I've had anything to say. How is that possible? It's not. Really. It's not. I've just had a boat load of stuff going on. I can't tell you how many times I've been to the gym and seen a middle-aged ass hanging out of spandex, sat through a meeting listening to mental midgets blather on about how smaaaaaaaaaht they are, or cruised through the market only to be hissed at by a free-range toddler spitting and snatching cookies off the shelf, and thought "maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan I've got an angry letter for you!" Alas, those letters never got written because life got in the way. I kinda suck like that. I apologize. That letter to the spandex wearing freak at the gym (seriously, who wears a speedo to do cardio?) reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally needs to be written! In fact, I think that's where I'll take this apology, right back to our regularly scheduled asshattery:

Dear Speedo-sporting Douchebag,
You can't be serious. You can't be. No one in their right mind wears a Speedo, not even Michael Phelps! They are not flattering on the fittest of physiques, which yours doesn't even remotely resemble. Seriously man, I neeeeeeeeeed to get my cardio on. But when I walk into the gym and see your spandexed ass hanging out all over the machines, I just can't. I can't do it. I can't even touch the machine knowing your barely covered crack has been near it.
You have the softest thighs and roundest hips I have ever seen on a man. Spandex is NOT helping. In fact, it's traumatizing. The last time we saw you on the Helliptical machine, my son asked me why you were allowed to work out in your underwear while everyone else had to wear pants! You're scarring the children, homie! Scarring them!
For the love of all that is holy, cover up the junk in your trunk! Hell, cover up the trunk too! It's just wrong! And burn the spandex Speedo. Burn them so you won't ever be tempted to wear them in public or private again. Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should. And really, you shouldn't.

Sincerely,

The crack-phobic fatty waiting for a clean machine.

It went so quickly.

Dear Victor,
It seems like just yesterday that we were walking you, so nervous and excited you didn't say a word, to your first day of kindergarten. You were so brave, so strong that day. I watched you walk in and greet your classmates like you were old friends, settling into your new role as a student without a second thought or hesitation. I, on the other hand, went home and bawled like a baby. You are not a baby,not even a little boy, any more. You are a little man. The year was not without it's challenges, boredom, brats, and bullies to name a few, but you faced each one head on and overcame them all, mostly on your own. I could not be more proud of the boy you are, or the man you are becoming. I love that you are so excited for first grade and all the adventures it will hold. You are one amazing kid, and I can't wait to see all of the amazing things that you will do.


I love you buddy,
Mama

Good Lord, I'm depressing.

Here, watch this!

Rites of Passage

Sometimes I think that Victor asking to go to the synagogue last year was more for me than it was for him. Since venturing over there, I have repeatedly been floored by things I've heard or seen there. All in a good way, but also unsettling. It's uncanny how the Rabbi's seem to say what I need to hear, or direct me to something I need to read without my saying a word.
A few weeks ago, Rabbi Nancy lost her father. After she returned to the synagogue, she was talking about her loss, and her grief, and she said "It's a rite of passage. It is. And it's ok." And it stopped me. This year has been marked by loss and sadness for my family, both home and work families. I have been to several funerals, several hospitals, and muttered countless prayers under my breath for the people I love. For her to say, days after losing her father, that death is a rite of passage and it's ok floored me. Because she's right, and I had never considered it before. It's not ok to lose the people you love. It sucks. It can be maddeningly painful. But it's inevitable. What's ok is to grieve for them. To feel that pain, that loss, and then to let it go. It's the letting go that I struggle with. Others it's the feeling. But for me, it's the letting go. I don't know how to not be sad for what could have been. I don't know how to not grieve for lost opportunities and connections, for missed events and tasks left undone. I want to know. I want to let go. I think in some ways, I've started to, and in others, my heart remains steadfastly clenched around the hurt and the hole they left behind.
Rabbi Nancy is assured by her unwaivering faith that there is something more than this life. That those she's lost will be waiting for her when her time comes. I don't have that faith. I have questions, and doubt, and uncertainty. But I want it. I find myself, for the first time in my adult life, hoping that I'm wrong. Hoping that there is something more, someone waiting on the other side of that particular rite of passage.

Neglected

This poor blog has been so neglected. It's been a helluva year so far. At some point, I'll sit down and write the fifty blogs rolling around in my head. But not now.