One of THOSE days……

Have you ever had one of those days where everything you touch disintegrates beneath your fingers? Where everything you hear is a slight or an insult? Where everything you do turns out wrong, disastrously, inexplicably wrong? Have you ever had one of those days where no matter what you say or who is around, no one seems to hear you? Where everyone you meet needs a smack or a throat punch just to knock enough sense into them to make them go away? Have you ever just wanted to scream and shout and pull out your hair and have a giant flaming tantrum because the Universe is just pissing you off THAT much?

That was my day.

Why is it that one shit-brown day can undo weeks of positivity and hard work? Why does one little day, one single set of 24 hours, have so much power? Am I really that much of a sissy la la princess that a few hours of crappy behavior by others can make me feel so worthless and pathetic? When did I become such a weak-minded asshole? I mean, I am a grown ass woman. I have accomplished so much. I work hard. I have two beautiful kids and a marriage in progress. I have students I adore who work hard and do well. I have a job that matters. I make positive contributions every time I set foot on campus. I have friends who love me, and whom I love dearly. Why can a couple of dicks make me forget all the good I have around me so quickly? Why can one bad night turn it all on its head? What the hell is wrong with me that I can't put into perspective? I'm teetering on the edge of a complete flame out. Some of the people around me are just ridiculous. Their stupidity is so maddening, it's overwhelming. I need to get myself under control before I lose it and let them ruin everything I've worked for. Someone tell my temper because it's not listening to me anymore.

6

Dear Victor,
Every year, your birthday is a source of excitement and joy. You count down the days until it arrives, and are giddy the entire day of because it's 'your' day. 24 hours under your complete (albeit supervised) control. In the past, your birthdays have been filled with trips to the park and board games, soy ice cream and vegan cakes, movies and snuggling on the couch. In the past, you were a little boy. Today, your birthday was filled with school, a surprise trip to the golf course with your papa, and a late dinner out at the restaurant of your choosing. The day passed, hustled and bustled, and I barely had time to hug you tight, tell you I love you and wish you a happy day.
You are not a baby any more. You are a young man. There are days when I struggle to see you as you are and not as you used to be. But it's so easy to see the wonderful man you are becoming. You have been the light of our lives for six amazing years. I look forward to watching you grow and mature for many, many more.

I love you forever and always,

Your mama

Sometimes they just break your heart.

I've been a teacher for a relatively long time. This is my ninth year. In those nine years, I've had hundreds of students. Each of them came to me with their own story, their own traumas and triumphs, their own little take on the world. Each of them, in their own way has touched me and shaped the way I see and interact with the world. Many of them are the reason I come back to teaching year after year. On any given day, I feel prepared to handle whatever my students bring me, be it sorrow or joy, serious conversation or light-hearted celebration. Today a little girl walked through my door and showed me just how much I still have to learn. I can't post much about her particular circumstances, but suffice it to say that such a short life should not contain so much abuse and neglect. The scars of her past are visible on her person and in her eyes. Her fear and uncertainty were palpable as soon as she walked through my door. She recoiled from my hand as I gently touched her shoulder, and it took a concerted effort for her to raise her eyes up off the floor. It broke my heart to watch her struggle with simply being in the room.
As the days go by and I try to teach her English, I have a feeling I'm going to have to teach her much more than a language, and I have no idea how I'm going to do it. Watching her trying to shrink into her desk, trying to hide in plain sight reminds me how fortunate my children and I are to be where we are and have the lives that we do. It may sound odd, but I am thankful that she found her way to me. I am almost certain she has as much to teach me as I do her.

What a difference a year makes.

Dear Victor,
A year ago, you couldn't sleep for nervousness over starting school and the changes that would bring. You got up early, excited, scared, unsure about what the day would bring. You fingered your breakfast, not really wanting to eat, in too much of a hurry to get your clothes on and get on with your day, your new 'life' as a kindergartner. You walked up to the school, anxious and excited, clutching your papa's hand the whole way, wanting to go but not quite ready to let go. You wavering confidence was adorable and oddly reassuring. On the playground, waiting for the bell to ring and your new class to start, you became confident and reassured that kindergarten would be fun and you would make friends. The walk into kindergarten was easy and exciting, as long as you were holding my hand.

Today you began first grade. There was no nervousness, no fright, and the doubts you had about being able to handle first grade were fleeting. The day couldn't begin early enough for you. You inhaled your breakfast,














threw on your clothes,















and waited by the door impatiently. For an hour.


















You didn't walk up to school, so much as you ran, your little brother chasing behind you.The walk to class was more like a swagger, and there was no time to hold hands.

When it came time for class to start, you sat patiently,














raised your hand, and let the whole room know you were there and ready to get down to the very serious business that is first grade.












You are such an incredible little boy.
I'm so excited to see what this year has in store for you, and you for it!

Love,

Mama

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.