Road Trip

Outside
each road dances

trees shifting in their sleep

a vacant trailer sags on a ridge

peeling poster flutters from a flaking billboard

washed woods point dated directions

a river curls cautiously around a lost clump of weeds

spent stalks collapse under snow

countless whites and grays flash by

as shuffled card faces of buildings

brick, metal, cinder block, metal

noiseless movement past tinted windows

Inside
my hand in yours
you and I are still

We Met

We met
Tuesday night shopping

you were screaming at your screaming child

her long hoarse vowels
seeping through packages of chinese noodles
and ricocheting off tin cans of green beans

tired muscles of my eyes
resisting rolling

because she seems to know
you won't really slap her into next week

Leaving room for you and your frustration
I skipped your aisle
And didn't buy cranberries

So, how was it?

I’ve been away for awhile

Rocked by the waves of an unpredictable river

Relaxed sometimes in my inflatable black tube

Surprised sometimes by a thrilling section of rapids

Disappointed sometimes by entrapment in a patch of reeds

Melting in the humid sun

But not missing the demands of rowing

I am too busy examining a rare water plants

Discovering exotic, brightly-colored fish,

Gathering glossy, spotted rocks from the river bed

Feeling their weight in my pockets

Far away I spot rowboats anchored on the shore

I’m so glad I am not their captain

There are many streams and forks,

Miles and waves

Eventually though

they become confusing

Not sure where I am,

the rocking makes me dizzy

Sunburned and windblown,

I return home

Glad to return my hand to the tiller of my own

Fighters

"Fight like a girl!"

That's the slogan on the back of one of the T-shirts that will be at the Make Strides Against Breast Cancer Walk here in Binghamton today. So as I get ready to leave for the walk, I'm wondering about that phrase means.

In my house full of boys it's traditionally been an insult. Don't get caught crying like a girl, punching like a girl, running like a girl, or, heaven forbid, playing baseball like a girl--it just won't do. So fighting like a girl, hasn't traditionally been a compliment 'round here.

But I know that my young sons are starting to grow up to learn what it really means to fight like a girl. As they learn what women have fought for in history, as they benefit from the quiet strength of the women that I hope will remain in their lives, as they meet women who fight like no man they've ever met before, they'll learn. It takes a little longer to see because we women don't fight with punches and guns and bombs, we fight with an inner strength that few men have, and that many women don't know that they have.

And that is what I want my sons to know, and two of them will be walking with me today. It is what I want my middle school students to know, the strong women I know who fight like girls.

I want them to know about my friend Debbie, who waited to tell her daughters about her diagnosis and upcoming surgery, until her granddaughter was born. Erin had already lost one child to miscarriage, and Debbie wanted to be support for her daughter, not more stress.

Or my friend Lauren, Deb's other daughter, who celebrated her daughter's first birthday, lost her job, and then received her own diagnosis. And the fight she faces is a long one, but she has already started admirably, with optimism and strength that her daughter can be proud of.

I want them to fight like my friend Sara, who struggled for months making a decision to leave a difficult marriage, only to be diagnosed shortly afterward. Her decision to stay with her husband and fight for her health was as much for her children as herself.

I want them to remember people like my friend Tina, whose death was followed 3 weeks later, by that of her husband, who couldn't see living his life without her. And to know strong people like Tina's daughter now raising her teenage brother.

I'm walking because I've been inspired by a lot of strong women who fight like girls, with the hope that someday they won't have to anymore.

Those back-to-school lists

This was passed along to me via email by my mother-in-law, and I wish I wrote it. Which is funny, because the kid's name is Ben.
Tina

For all who have been shopping for back to school supplies with "THE LIST". Enjoy!

Dear Mrs. X:

In just over a week, you will be my son’s Grade 1 teacher. He is ever so excited to be under your tutelage. Since the last day of kindergarten, entering your class was all he could talk about. He gleefully thrust a piece of paper into my hand on that June afternoon, and said, “Here’s a list of the stuff I need for school next September!”

And I have to admit, I, too, was excited. I'm a school supplies geek from way back. And so, in early August, I set out to buy the items you'd listed.

It was on my fourth store that the realization began to sink in.

You are a crafty bitch, aren't you?

This list was a thinly disguised test. Could I find the items, exactly as you'd described? Because if not, my son would be That Kid, the one with the Problem Mother, The Mother Who CAN'T Follow Directions.

For example, the glue sticks you requested. In the 40 gram size. Three of the little buggers. (What kind of massive, sticky project you've got planned for the first day of school that would require the students to bring all this glue, I cannot imagine.) But the 40 gram size doesn't come in a convenient 3-pack. The 30 gram size does. But clearly, those would be wildly inappropriate. So I got the individually priced 40’s, as per your instructions.

Another bit of fun was your request for 2 packs of 8 Crayola crayons (basic colors). The 24 packs, with their 24 different colors, sat there, on sale. I could have purchased three of the 24 packs for the price I had to pay for the 8 packs. (Clearly, you'll not be teaching the youngsters any sort of economics lessons this year.) Even the cashier looked at me, as if to say, “Pardon me, ma'am, but are you slow?” as I purchased these non-bargain crayons. But that’s what the list said. And I was committed to following the list.

But the last item, well, now, you saved your malice up for that one, didn't you? “8 mm ruled notebooks”, you asked for. Simple enough. Except the standard size is seven millimeters. One. Millimeter. Difference. Do you realize, Mrs. X., exactly how infinitesimal the difference between 7 mm ruling and 8 mm ruling is? Pretty small, I assure you. The thickness of a fingernail, approximately. But that millimeter, that small bit of nothingness, made me drive to four different stores, over the course of three sweaty August hours. And when I finally, finally found the last remaining 8 mm notebooks, I took no pleasure in my victory. I merely shifted my focus. To you, Mrs. X.

You wanna dance, lady? Let’s dance.

Because I am just batshit crazy enough to play your games. And, in turn, come up with some of my own.

On show and tell day, my son will be bringing the video of his birth. It will be labeled, “Ben’s First Puppy.” Enjoy!

He will be given a list of words, and daily, he will ask you what they mean. Words such as, “pedophile”, “anti-semite”, and “skank”. Good luck with those.

At some point, you will attempt to teach him mathematics. And I'm quite sure that, like most of your ilk, you will require my son to “show his work”. And he will-----through interpretive dance.

Because that is who you've chosen to tangle with, toots. A stay at home mom who is not entirely balanced, and has altogether too much time on her hands. But is, most certainly, A Mother Who CAN Follow Directions.

Sincerely,

Ben's Mom

Boy Meets Car--A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a happy, handsome young prince named Teenager. He knew that he was young, and he definitely knew that he was handsome, but he did not know that he was happy, for verily, he did not have a chariot.

"Woe is me!" He cried out in great agony, "For I have no chariot. And my mother, the Evil Queen, refuses to purchase one for me."

Alas, it was true! His mother was evil and she was the queen, and she would not purchase the said chariot.

"Hah, hah, ha," she cackled. "Half! Thou shalt not purchase an automobile until thou bringeth me half of the gold! Hah, ha ha!"

Indeed Teenager was very, very sad for he knew not how he would accomplish such a deed.

"Oh, the agony!” cried Teenager, for he was indeed in great pain. "She who holds half the gold makes a full pain in my butt!"

"A job!" cackled the Evil Queen again. "Get thyself a JOB!" Bwah, ha, ha!"

With the weariest of sighs and eyerolling, the teenager set off to find himself a job. He journeyed far beyond the kingdom to Pizza Palace where he learned to make magic pies.

There he worked with fire and gold and even learned to wield a magical tool called a "mop." Soon he found that he had finally gathered enough gold to purchase his fine chariot.

Valiantly, the teenager searched every corner of the kingdom for his perfect chariot, until one day, he found it! Princess Jetta! She was small and quick, and of the darkest green, and got great gas mileage! And when Prince Teenager tried the key, it fit!

"You have done well, fine Prince," proclaimed the Evil Queen, "But you are warned, be certain to hoard closely a portion of your gold, for chariot repairs may be needed."

But like most Princes of his kind, teenager did not heed the warning of the wise queen. Instead, he squandered his gold on such frivolities as X-Box and trips to Fast Food Land.

And one day, the Prince fell prey to his own folly.

“Ma!” cried the voice on the other end of the tiny magic phone, “I’m broke down on the side of route 88.”

“Fear not, Prince! Check thine supplies carefully! Is the cauldron completely full with Magic Elixir?”

"Well, Duh, Ma--I mean--Verily fine queen, I have done as you nag! My chariot has indeed been bewitched!"

It took all the supremacy of the Evil Queen’s powers to suppress the ferocity of the imprisoned monster, Itoldyouso, but she had years of experience in preventing his escape, so she sent Sir Tow Truck to rescue poor teenager.

As the Evil Queen relinquished much gold to the wise Wizard at Ye Olde Repair Shop, she asked for his magical diagnosis of Princess Jetta’s recent demise.

Wise Wizard struggled to suppress his laughter, ”Actually Ma’am, it was out of gas.”

Don’t forget to remember…

tough skin, soft heart,

complimentary critiques,

astonishing expectations,

indulgent boundaries,

serious silliness,

clever stupidity,

embarrassing pride,

frustrating satisfaction.

The Game of Life

Just finished playing the game of Life with my 8-year-old.

No, I really did. I mean, literally.

I get a private giggle during this board game by pretending I am some cosmic recorder of his future. Every move he makes predicts what will happen to him. I am the Goddess of Prediction: Miltonia Bradlysnome.

He chooses the path leading to college (good boy), therefore going heavily into debt (might as well get used to that now), but lands right on "Spring Break in the Bahamas," or something like that. I cringe at the image of buxom beach babes surrounding my beer-guzzling baby boy, who is, of course, still only 8 in this daydream. His career card makes him a doctor (stereotype, I know) and he buys stock (which I wish I could afford to do right now). So far, so good.

"Your husband's name is Tim," he says, quite matter-of-factly, "And you KNOW what my wife's name is." Now that is a topic for another post. With all the confidence of a second-grader whose experiences in life have still left him believing in Happily Ever After, my son has decided that he WILL marry Natalee S. Not maybe, not probably, he WILL. When his brothers chant, "Matthew's got a giiirl-friend," he does not respond with the whining, kicking, or poorly-landed punches that were so hoped for by his tormentors. No, Matthew says, "Not yet! But she will be!" Yes, Matt, I know your wife's name.

So he's a doctor married to Natalee, and now they have a house and are being moved through Life in their lovely plastic orange minivan. And they make some good choices. Like learning sign language, planting trees, and my personal fav--winning the Nobel Peace Prize. All in a hard day's work. It's not all good, though. Like I'm not so sure I approve of the $100,000 in plastic surgery, but hey, nobody's perfect unless they pay for it.

I'm still having my private giggle, but as trite as it sounds, it really is life in miniature. I'm going to have to sit here helplessly and watch my children spin the wheel and make choices, whether I like it or not. I'm already seeing it happen with my 20 -year-old.

I think I prefer the board game to real life, though. Much less pressure. Matt won, although at the end I realized he didn't have any pink and blue plastice kids in his minivan. Now what fun is Life without grandchildren?

Aren't They Handsome?

It's a horribly blurry picture, I know, but it really expresses my thoughts for today.
I need a name for those moments. They aren't quite epiphanies but they do really hit me. I can almost see the lightbulb go on over my head. Tiny little realizations about something in my life that's been totally obvious all along, but suddenly becomes clear to me.

My baby boys are men.

Sometimes it hits me when I call home and one of them answers. Or when I hear a voice in the other room and wonder for a brief moment who the heck that man is.

When they watch TV, staring at the scantily clad woman on the beer commercial. Hey! Cut that out!

Or when one of them tries to charm me. They both do it, my teenage boys, turning on the same smile that works on adolescent girls. Hah! Don't they know I'm immune? Don't they know this teacher has faced every teenage charm known to middle school, and stared them all down! Hah! They think they can flash the puppy dog eyes and Mommy will just melt.

Sigh! If only they didn't look so much like their dad.

Loverboy

A reprint from my "other blog"

My son is smitten.

The object of his affection is another four-year-old classmate by the name of Sarahpatterson. It is all one word when he says it, like she is Madonna, or Cher.

"Dad," Matthew says out of the clear blue one day, "You've just GOTTA meet Sarahpatterson."

"Sarahpatterson?" says Dad. "Who's she?"

There is a long pause during which my son is obviously contemplating a vision in his memory.

"A girl," he finally says with a sigh, "In a pink shirt."

I guess that's all that needs to be said.

The object of his affection is certainly a beauty. A cute little blonde thing with boatloads of personality. I'm sure my son's lovesickness was brought on by her obvious charm. And I know my youngest son. He wants very much to please. And now he has decided WHO he wants to please.

The teachers at nursery school tell me he follows her around like a lost puppy, fetching things for her, making sure that she has everything she might want or need.

"I gotta get that girl to tell me how she does it," her Mom emailed me, "I want to know if it will work on her father."

I doubt it. Most men stop indulging us once they hit double digits. Unless they want something.

Now that he is besotten, I fear that this will take away from his studies. How will he concentrate during show and tell? Open his juice box? Properly complete Finger Painting 101? This may set him back for months!

I was quizzing him one day about the pictures and letters at school. I'm so proud of how smart he is. He remembers that A starts the word apple and D starts the word duck. "T is turtle," he says.

"What's S?" I ask.

"Sarahpatterson."

I sigh. "And what was she wearing today?"

He looks up and scans his brain, "A blue dress."

Now THAT he remembers.

"Sarahpatterson should come up to the cottage," Matthew announced one day. "We have lots of rooms, but she can sleep with me."

Ah the innocence of the Pre-K set! He'd probably let her share his stuffed animals and hog all the blankets.

I can't take it anymore! Matthew, please stay little! Be that sweet little long-lashed, brown-eyed bugger who still believes that you can just adore someone...and everything stays as simple as which bed you sleep in.

And Sarahpatterson, please don't break my little guy's heart!

We Three Pounds

Three pounds!

How can I gain three pounds in two days?!

I know, it sounds like I'm whining, but that's not a great rate to buy into. That would be nine by New Year's, thirty-three by Martin Luther King Day, and something like seventy-eight by President's Week. Seventy-eight! That's a whole 'nother eight-year-old boy. Just what don't want to be carrying around with me! Yikes!

Okay, obviously I'm panicking. I guess "We Three Pounds" showed up just like the Kings, "bearing gifts" and "travers(ing) afar"--that is, if "afar" can be Grandmas' and Grandpas' houses over the last two days.

But could I really have eaten two pounds worth?

I didn't eat two pounds worth of walnut kolachki, although I could have. They remind me of Christmases with Grandma Ashman--perfect---delicious AND sentimental! But even though Colleen CLAIMS she loves me, she also says she's done making Christmas cookies FOR-EV-ER!!!! That's okay, though, because she's also said she's never having another dog, and Lexie the pitbull really loved the cookies, too. Tee hee hee.

Hmm, I did get closer to two pounds worth with the chocolate fudge and peanutbutter buckeyes at Mom's house. And Shelly was so "kind" as to bring the leftover dips from her party for us to graze on Christmas day. Mmm, I can't resist a taco dip with real jalepenos! But calories eaten while standing up don't count anyway, we all know that!

I might have gone over the limit with lasagna and garlic bread for dinner. Mom's lasagna, especially the vegetable version, is irrisistable. And Faith's Ameretto cake (heavy on the Ameretto, of course) is absolutely heavenly. How can I resist having my cake and liquor, too?

So I COULD blame it on Colleen and Mom and Shelly and Faith. For twisting my arms, of course, and forcing me to enjoy all that food. Then again, it might have just a little to do with the numerous glasses of wine I've consumed. Ouch!

I'll have some making up to do this week.
"Guide us to thy perfect lite." ;-)

On the First Day of Christmas...

...Or why I never get a damn thing done...

I wake up this morning ready to roll. It's my first day of vacation, and I am determined to Get Something Done. The house needs to be picked up, some bills need to be paid, and presents wrapped (ALL of them)! If I have time, I want to get to that newsletter I was going to write--the one that used to be The Christmas Chronicle, but will now be a New Year's Greeting.

I got to sleep until nine. What a treat! Matt and Ben are up already, watching television. I decide to nip this in the bud right away. We can't have them doing that all day. They turn it off as soon as I ask and decide to build a fort out of blankets and pillows in the family room. Full of Christmas spirit, they are singing, "Fa la la la la, la la la la." How cute! I sneak in to have breakfast with my blog.

I don't get much written, though, before duty calls. My little boys are quite proud that they can get their own breakfast, but today they need help because the cereal bag isn't open yet and the milk is too full for 8-year-old muscles to lift. No big deal, Mommy will grab that for you. While I'm doing that, though, I notice the bags of assorted candy, paper decorations, green and red pencils and plastic junk left on the counter from yesterday's school parties. I sort through and sneak some of it in the garbage.

Oh, that reminds me. I still have my bag of stuff to sort through. A middle school teacher doesn't get much, but I should take care of that now. The phone rings next, of course, and fifteen minutes later I am looking at my cold tea and toast, and I haven't begun a single thing on my "To Do" list.

I finish my journal entry and hear those voices singing "Fa la la la la," in the other room. I resolve to get back to work.

Start by picking up the house. Can't throw away cans until I empty the can bag. Can't clear off the counter until I bring in the recycle bins. Can't throw in a load of wash until I put away the clean ones taking up space in the baskets.

A voice cries out desparately from the kitchen, "Who threw my reindeer in the GARBAGE?!"

Mommy panics. Dangit! I got nabbed! "Um, it must have fallen in, Sweetheart. But, um, the googly eyes fell off and we lost the nose. So now all that's there is a brown paper cone."

Matthew is appaled! "It's a REINDEER, Mom!"

"Fa la la, la la la, LA LA LA!"

Ever onward! In the midst of folding clothes, though, I stop to answer the door, bring in the mail, and referee two arguments between my sons. Putting clothes away necessitates my clearing the pile of Christmasgifts out of my closet and dragging my kids upstairs to clean their room.

Teenager wants to join the sing-along, "Don we now our GAY apparel!"
"Cut it out!" Mommy yells.
"I know!" is the sheepish answer. Followed by an evil little giggle.

My mother calls. Can we come over tonight so she can give the boys their tree ornaments BEFORE Christmas? Of course we can. There's an hour chopped off the day, so now I really need to get my act in gear!

I hear the voices upstairs, changing the words to the song, "Poo-py, poopy, poopy, pa-ants. Fa la la, la la la, la la la!"
"Hey, you two, cut it out! Sing the song right!"

I head in to vacuum the family room, but get no further with the pillows and blankets all over the floor.
"After we pick up the blankets, can we watch TV?"

No way. They are going OUTSIDE to play in the snow! Mommy will finally get some wrapping done.

First there is the endless wrapping of children in snow gear, though. Once they are cleared away, I get brave and pull out some little kid gifts. I lock the door so that they will have to knock to get in, giving me time to hide the loot. YES! I am LOCKING my children OUT of the HOUSE!" Give me another Bad Mommy award. It'll look great with my collection!

But outside is never, truly, outside.

Knock, knock. "Mo-om, where are the sleds?"
Knock, knock. "Mo-om! Benny threw a snowball at me!"
Knock, knock. "Mo-om, I need new mittens."
Knock, knock. "Mo-om. Why are you locking the door?"

It really doesn't matter--nine presents later it is raining wet snow and they are ready to come in. Sigh!

Mommy caves, "Do you guys want to watch TV?"

A Very Satisfying Meal

I think the reason I first notice him, is that he has a cap on. Not an impolite, improperly worn baseball cap, but a tweed cap like Gatsby would have worn. Sure, he probably should remove it, sitting in a booth in an Italian restaurant, but he has his coat on, too. Like he is ready to leave.

So as I walk by to be seated with my two youngest sons, I can't help but glance his way. He sits stiffly, straight-backed, frequently checking the door. And on the seat in the booth beside him sits a vase full of red, sweetheart roses.

Aha! The romantic in me can't resist. I'll make sure I sit facing him. I can't wait to see his awaited love arrive! Will he propose to her? How I'd love to be a nosy bystander for such an event!

Fortunately it's pretty easy to pretend that I am looking at my boys while I check Loverboy out. He has dark eyes and hair, and a clean-cut, military feel to him. He is nice looking, but not too handsome. I like that. In the stories in my head, I can imagine that they love each other for more than just good looks, and soon they'd be engaged right here in the corner of my favorite pizza joint!

I start to create some scenarios. Maybe he'll do the old-fashioned, get-down-on-one-knee. Maybe he'll announce his love to the whole restaurant, and bravely wait for her public answer. Perhaps he has something elaborate planned, like a hidden ring brought out by the waiters. There is no end to the possibilities!

And yet, as my daydreams ramble on, and my salad arrives, still no girl has joined him. Loverboy continues to fidget nervously, and the corner booth he occupies alone seems to swallow him up. Twice a thoughtless waiter apologetically sets his tray on Loverboy's table as he unloads it for a nearby party. I want to shake him! Can't he see that a little piece of history is about to take place in that corner?! Would it kill him to walk a little further?!

Oh, no! What if She doesn't arrive?! How long will he sit there waiting for her? His face looks so hopeful and nervous, that I begin to worry for this stranger. I really, really love happy endings.

Then I wonder if I've got it all wrong. Was I silly to assume that he's a great guy who deserves to be met by his beloved? Maybe he's been horrible to her, and this meeting is his desperate apology. Maybe it's best that she never shows up. Maybe this guy thinks I'm psychotic because I've been staring at him all through dinner!

As Loverboy makes a phone call, I silently chide myself. What is my problem? I'm always off in some other world, creating scenarios and daydreams, assuming that everyone is good and happy and oh-so-in love! Sheesh! I need a reality check. This poor guy is probably nothing more than a florist who had an extra arrangement left over today, and is irritated because his business partner is late. To hell with it!

Just when I have talked myself into paying attention to my food instead, she arrives. She has been brought in by a friend who was, it appears, in on the surprise. She did not know that he would be there! Loverboy's girl is pretty, but not too pretty. Perfect!

I have tears in my eyes as she hugs him, and I catch some smiles on the faces of others at the tables around me. It wasn't just me, then! A group of strangers collectively sighing in relief for this young man in the corner, enjoying a long-awaited happy ending.

On the way out, I just can't resist. I walk by their table and smile at her, "I was so glad to see you arrive," I say. She smiles back at me, and looks at him.

I leave the restaurant, very satisfied.

"The sun a spark, /hung thin between/ the dark and dark" -John Updike

I've just discovered which sons' arms have outgrown their coat sleeves.

It's definitely winter in upstate New York. Updike's words above are barely exaggeration here, where the sun really is a spark, or a low flame, at least. The highway construction cones will finally be put away, with the exception of a few strays here and there that will emerge in the spring, popping up like crocuses when the sun melts. I drive to and from work in the dark, a trip which is shorter than the time it takes for the heat to kick on. And what the heck did I do with that snow scraper, anyway?

My neighbors will soon disappear into their houses, and by the time they reemerge, many will have more or less children. We wait longingly for that first tranquil snow fall, which we hope arrives in time to make the Christmas decorations look good. After that, just about everyone under the age of 12 wants it all to melt away until next year.

But that will not happen. Oh no. It will pile up endlessly, mercilessly, until there is nowhere left to put it. We will shovel and scrape, push and shove, play and pray, but the snow is tenacious. Snowplowed piles in shopping mall parking lots literally do not completely melt until June. By February I will feel as if I can no longer see color.

Already I am lamenting, and the big stuff has not even begun. We haven't had a real big snow storm. In the pool at work to pick the first snow day, I have December 19th, so cross your fingers for me. But honestly, the big, stay-in-your-house snow days are kind of fun. It's the everyday, wet, cold, slushy, gray, don't-see-the sun-all-day endlessness that I could do without.

Sigh.

Send me some sunshine!

Spinning

Okay, I really want to post some things over here, but I just can't get moving lately, for some reason. I was going to say I have had writers' block, but that isn't really it either. I've had a couple of great ideas float up to the surface of my brain, but I've yet to make it to a computer in time to fish them out. I'm sure there's a great journal entry or two waiting to be salvaged from the ocean floor, but I'm going to have to wait on that.

My students have been writing lately, though, so I've been enjoying being at the other end of the writers' conversation. My eighth graders have been writing poetry...with all of the angst and incongruity that comes with it at that age. Many of them have been coming up with fabulous things...they amaze me. Extended metaphors comparing gossip to a flame, the baseball season to a parade, or a tiny, speechless baby, to a delicate, silent dancer. I think my favorite was a boy who looked at a brave solid soldier on the outside, and then described his fear on the inside. Their poetry is intense, and I love it!

In contrast, my seventh graders have been creating newspapers, which are a hoot to read, because their assignment was to write everything as if it were happening fifty years from now. There is a wonderful sense of hope that comes through in their views--cures for cancer, world peace, even the Bills winning the Superbowl--all these wonderful things show up in their world from the future. They love to tease their teachers a little, too. Throughout their stories, I have blown up a Thanksgiving turkey, run for president (and lost), and been permanently stuck in a window while protesting the closing of our school. My favorite is when I was the first 87-year-old American Idol winner singing my hit songs: Do the 'Do Now', A Lot is Not One Word, and The Five Parts of a Friendly Letter. Their sense of humor is one of the many reasons why I love this age!

So school is good and my house is clean...some things are great. But my migraines are back, my journal's neglected, and a Child-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is failing science. And, trust me, the list goes on. For some reason, I just can't get it all together at the same time. I feel like all around me are people who can juggle it all and do fine, but I just can't. Consistently, at least.

At any given time, someone who met me and just got a little snapshot of my life, would think I was either very put together, or a perfect dope! If my house is immaculate, I guarantee there are a mess of papers on my desk at school. If there are groceries in the cupboard, I probably didn't make it to church this week. If I'm all caught up grading papers, my roots are probably showing and my eyebrows need to be waxed!

And it isn't really juggling, it's more like spinning plates. I'm a carnival worker running back and forth between them, and whenever I get a few spinning beautifully, I'm jumping to catch one and watching another fall to the ground. It's an awful metaphor, I know, but I really can visualize it! Right now I'm watching a few shining plates while my journal plate slows to a wobbly roll.

Sigh. I'll try to get it spinning soon.

Welcome

I am yet another former AOLer trying to decide whether I want to move or not. While I have no passionate philosophical problems with the decision to muck up the journals with ads over there, I do think that they are positively ugly. And...scratch that...I do have a little bit of a problem with it. If anyone is going to choose who places advertisements above my words, it should be me. Yet I feel very comfortable in my digs over in J-land, and I'm just not ready to leave.

With that said, I've decided to set up a little tent over here and see how I like the view. My AOL journal is still in place, but will be a little dusty while I move some things in here at Blogger.

So for now, I guess I'd like to introduce myself. I lost in a forest of testosterone, married with four sons. Tim is 17, and just got a new car, Dan, 14, is my runner, , Ben 8, loves to pose for any picture, and my little loverboy, Matt, who just turned 5.
Despite the fact that I am a middle school English teacher, good editors will catch me in an error or two, because sometimes I get a little carried away (love that spellcheck, though, Blogger). I like to write about life, and what I learn from it, and those have been my best entries. Every once in a while, I even sneak in a poem.

Please stop in and check out this spot a few times. I love to write, but it means so much more when it's read, and I'd be pleased to make your acquaintance.
Tina

Far From Perfect

Sometimes I allow myself to pretend that I am "perfectly" average. You know, average house, average salary, average kids. In a boring way, really. I mean, how much more dull can you get than a teacher married to a cop, raising kids in a rather sheltered corner of suburbia?

I know that we in no way qualify for "perfect," though. By what I read in the media, we are far from it. I never used cloth diapers, I hated breast feeding, and I actually spanked my children occasionally. I regularly use spit to wash their faces, and have even fed them cereal for dinner. My house? Don't even ask. The dishes don't match and neither does the furniture. I daresay if Martha Stewart were faced with Living here, she'd opt for jail.

I wonder, too, if the average family is as weird as we are. Does anyone sing for no reason (and as badly) as I do? Are other mothers surrounded by boys who consider noisy body functions to be a daily source of entertainment?

Okay, I know we are far from perfect, (and I spend far too much time fretting over that distance) but I look for ways that we are far from average all the time. For one thing, I get just a little flak about the size of our family. My "big" family of four boys (something like 2.7 more than the average) gets a wise crack every now and then. "Were ya' tryin' for that girl?" or "All them babies! Hyuck, now y'all know what's causin' that, right?"

Hilarious.

Four kids is what I grew up with, and I just never thought of it as big. Until all four of them decided to play a sport during the same season, but that's another story.

When I was a kid, I thought to be perfectly average would be a shame. A failure even. I was gonna be well above average, a shining star, an expert in my field. La, la, la...Why do I suddenly have an flashback of myself singing into my deoderant-stick microphone in front of my bedroom mirror?

I've since discovered, as I'm sure so many others have, that--while the absence of superstardom certainly can be boring at times (as a matter of fact, I'd call that an understatement)--it certainly can be perfectly wonderful. And to tell the truth, I doubt that anyone is "perfectly" average.

Thus, this journal was born. Welcome.