Morning Run

It was a relatively unphotogenic week around here with the exception of this series: Clementine Eats an Avocado.

Not pictured: clean up. I had forgotten how messy babies are when they start to eat table food. On a related note, I am finding the dog to be more useful around the house than ever before.

Also not pictured: I became obsessed with the idea of making chocolate pudding this week and had two very unphotogenic pudding disasters. I burned the first batch and then undercooked it on the second try. (Probably because my kitchen helpers were shrieking "MOM! Don't burn it!" with every swirl of the whisk. But who's pointing fingers?) At least the second disaster was edible- it was more like a cold chocolate soup, which is quite tasty but definitely not pudding. I will try again today because I am persistent when it comes to chocolate.

And then I took the camera outside for a pop of color. 

Again, not pictured: an evening of tears and tantrums and angry words and hurt feelings, of punches and kicks and ugly words. A missed opportunity to join our friends at the arcade for beer and pinball because Brent and I sat exasperated at the dinner table amid total chaos and decided that there was no way to save the evening except to put everybody to bed.

And then I woke up this morning ready to run. I haven't felt the urge to run in a very long time, despite the many kind words of encouragement and invitations from my running friends. My body has to want it and until this morning, it didn't.

I dug my running shoes out from a shoe pile in the garage and the dog went nuts. We set off into the rain and my legs felt heavy and tired. I know that if I can make it past the one mile mark I will start to feel better. I know that if I can run for the next week, I will be a runner again. And so I ignore the small spread of pain that threatens to envelop my knee and distract myself by the beauty of a rainy morning. I rarely notice the clean smell of fresh rain or the reflection of the clouds in the puddles when I am stuck inside wondering how I will keep my house-bound children occupied, but out on a run I am able to see it all through a different lens. I have missed that.

Running lets me work through the things that cloud up my mind. When I run I often get an out-of-body type experience, where it feels like I'm hovering above my moving frame. Maybe this is runners high? I am often reminded of my children's births while I run because I experienced a similar out-of-body floatiness when both Jack and Sawyer were born. For some reason this did not happen with Clementine. I was right there and in the moment during her birth and it might be because my body and I had reached an agreement. I trusted my body and my body trusted me.

As I ran this morning I contemplated this trust. And I thought of my friend who will birth her baby tomorrow and bring to the world a child who I will know and love. A child who will play with my children and whose birthday parties I will attend. A child who will sit in my classroom one day and call me Mrs. Ross. I will watch him grow and remind him that I held him when he was newly born. He will send us a graduation announcement. I will dance at his wedding.

Lu and I arrive at the intersection that determines the length of our run. If I go straight we run 4.5 miles. If I turn right we run 2. Lu pulls me forward because even though it's been over a year since we've run the longer loop, dogs don't forget running routes. I am tempted to follow, but my knee throbs and I remember that my body and I have also agreed to be kind to one another.

So we turn down a familiar street whose uneven sidewalk makes my feet dance. I know where the icy spots are on winter morning runs and which houses have easily accessible garbage cans for poop bags. The residents of this street are rarely out when I run by, but their manicured lawns and sedans suggest retirement. I round a curve and see an ambulance pull silently to a stop outside a house. I lower my eyes and pass by as a paramedic slowly lowers a stretcher to the ground.

A gust of wind pushes me from behind. I stretch my shoulders back, raise my chin, shake the cramp from my knee and fly through the misty grey morning back to the people who wait for me at home.

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Pumped

On Friday afternoon I came home and washed and packed away my pump parts for the weekend, just like I always do. Then I realized that having only four weeks left of school means that I might be done pumping in a month! I know a lot of people who have emotional attachments to nursing, and maybe I'll shed a sentimental tear when Clementine stops, but for now I can say with certainty that I HATE PUMPING.

Now, to be fair, I have to say that for me breastfeeding has been relatively easy. I have an oversupply, which everyone says is the problem to have (I'm thinking having no problem is the way to go), but the one good thing about having way too much milk for your baby to handle is that you can pump pretty quickly. (There are lots of bad things about oversupply: choking your baby, for one. Excessive spit up, upset newborn tummy, too much foremilk/not enough hindmilk, soaking through nursing pads, blah blah blah, etc. etc.)

Pumping quickly is a good thing when you are on a teacher's schedule. I barely have time to get my work done, let alone spend big chunks of time attached to the wall of the staff bathroom. So by now I've got it down to about five minutes- I'm in and out in a flash. I crank that thing up to full speed and if somebody needs me they just yell in through the door over the sound of the vacuum. I make phone calls, catch up on texts, and grade papers. Just kidding about the grading, I am not that dexterous. Yet.

(Yes, I pump in a bathroom. And yes, I know that sounds totally gross. But it is a clean bathroom albeit a poorly ventilated bathroom, but that's another story... I did try pumping in my classroom once many years ago, and a male teacher came looking for me, used his key to enter the room despite my cries of "I'm pumping! I'm pumping!" and proceeded to talk to me about a student while I attempted some sense of decency by swiveling my chair to face the wall. "Oh, I don't mind. I have kids," he said, completely oblivious to my shock/disgust/horror.)

I used to spend a lot of time washing the pump parts and sterilizing those tubes and such. These days I am content with a warm water rinse and life is much easier. Clementine will have a super immune system after ingesting residual middle school germs during her infancy. I am still using the same pump that I bought six years ago to use with Jack. I am pretty sure the warranty is long voided and it threatens to die from time to time (I have to rattle the cord around and thwack it a few times on the countertop and that usually kick starts the motor.)

But the whole thing does kind of bog me down. I guess because it's just one more piece of luggage to remember on my way out the door every morning, one more thing that I have to squeeze into my busy day at work, and one of the more poignant reminders that I'm not home with my baby during the day. My body is trained to respond to this artificial suction pump in the same way that it responds to my daughter. This makes me kind of sad. Some people get the milk letdown when they hear a baby cry. Mine lets down when I hear any mechanical sucking sound.

So for those five minutes when I sit and attempt to relax while hooking myself up to the pump, I let myself miss my baby. I let myself feel sad about being at work and attached to a bathroom wall instead of home cuddling and nursing my baby.

I know a lot of people who work and I know a lot who stay home. I have friends who work part time and I have friends who work overtime. I don't even want to weigh in on the working parent/stay at home parent debate because I think we are all just doing whatever it takes to raise our families and preserve our sanity. And to preserve my sanity right now, it's helpful for me to remember that I have four weeks left.

Because there's a lot going on at home that I don't want to miss...

Four more weeks. Let's hope my pump can make it!

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We're So Pretty

Looking back at recent entries here I noticed a big problem. There are hardly any pictures of me. And it's not just a new phenomenon. If my goal for the past six years has been to document our family life with this blog, it would seem that I am failing, because I am very much present in each of these photo worthy moments and yet you rarely see me.

While it's true that I am the photographer in the family, I am also the one who scrutinizes the photos, finding faults with the rejects and storing them in file folders that will never again see the light of day. And I've noticed that the pictures of me almost always end up there.

I don't consider myself to be a vain person. I like to take care of myself, sure, but I don't obsess over looks and I certainly don't spend a lot of time primping or preening. So why do I have such a hard time appreciating pictures of myself?

I started this blog because I wanted my kids to be able to remember their childhood. And I guess in the deepest and darkest corners of my mind, I wanted an archive of this in case Brent and I aren't around to tell them about it someday. Morbid, perhaps, but honest.

I've realized lately that I'm not telling the whole story, because I am here too. And I've also realized that some of my favorite photos of my mom are the candid shots, the ones that would never make it into a scrapbook or a photo album. The silly ones. The laughing or mid sentence once. The pictures that captured an expression that I remember so well. Those are the ones that tell the real story.



Ever since he started kindergarten, Jack has become much more self-aware. He stands before the mirror on school days trying, usually unsuccessfully, to flatten his his hair. "I just hate my curls, Mom," he complains, with genuine distress. "I want my hair to be like everybody else's."

Fuck that.

I was photographing a party for one of my friend's kids. "Just make sure I'm not in any of the pictures," she requested.

Fuck that.

I overheard two ladies shopping the thrift store aisles next to me. "I wish I could wear shorts." "Oh, so do I. But my legs would scare people." And then they laughed.

Fuck that.

I pass back the school pictures to my classes. Some kids glance at their photos and put them away, while others cringe and flip the packets over before anyone else can see. One kid gets up and throws his into the garbage.

Fuck that.

I compliment a friend on a truly beautiful photo she has put online. She argues with me. "Maybe it's not so much that I don't like my face," she eventually acquiesces, "but that I'm just tired of looking at it after all these years." 

Huh. That kind of makes sense. Maybe I don't like pictures of me because I have looked like me for so long. Maybe I'm just kind of sick of looking at me. Huh.

But as I face the overwhelming task of raising my children in a society where it's perfectly acceptable, if not expected, to put yourself down, I wonder how I can help them be the kids who don't throw their school pictures in the garbage.

I guess I can start by handing the camera to Brent. I guess I can tell him that for Mother's Day, I'd really like some pictures of me with the kids. And then I guess I can accept my perceived imperfections and move the fuck on because my kids love me even if my teeth are crooked.  

And so you will see that I made an appearance in this week's photo line up. That in between Jack eating the world's biggest donut and Brent bathing the dog, I found the time to hand over that camera.

And for Mother's Day, I got my wish. We spent the afternoon at Agrarian Ales playing horseshoes, drinking beer, tossing beanbags, and letting our dog and kids run wild.

There I was, right in the middle of it all. And that's the real story.

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Breathe

It always happens to me at this time of the year. The grey dawn interrupts my morning sleep and my mind begins racing before I can even get out of bed. I feel twisted around and pulled in every different direction while my name is called, echoing off the walls, bouncing up from the floor. Mom! Mrs. Ross! Cassadie! Somebody always needs something.

This working mom thing goes okay but only for so long. About this time of the year it all falls apart for me. Work gets super busy. I came into my classroom last week to find two parents waiting for me while my phone rang and someone else was paging me over the intercom. Some people will say that it's good to be needed. I say it's also good to relax.

My fuse gets short. I find it nearly impossible to keep from rolling my eyes when the third kid in a row asks me the same tedious question. Will we be turning this in? How much is this worth? There are parties to plan and fundraisers to sponsor and research projects to grade. Soccer games and swimming lessons. Playdates and birthday parties and- oh shit- did I really forget to buy a present? It's tomorrow? Did I even remember to RSVP?

I am juggling as fast as I can, knowing that it's only a matter of time before I drop one of these balls. Before I miss an appointment, forget someone's big and important something, miss a payment, lose an application, before I let somebody down.

There are people I love who never hear from me. I've just been so busy, you know how it goes. There are voices that I miss hearing on the other end of the phone. People who I think about it those fleeting moments when nobody calls my name. People I miss. People I love.  I don't want to remember that I was busy. I just need to let it all spin for awhile. To ride it out the way I do every year. To smile, breathe, and go slowly.

Sometimes I feel an obligation to blog. Losing my mom and the connection to my own childhood compels me to document my kids' lives. But sometimes I get caught up in trying to compartmentalize our experiences into neat and tidy narratives. Sometimes there is no theme, sometimes there are just pictures.

And perhaps there is a motorcycle. "Dad! You are so awesome on that motorcycle, Dad!"

It is all awesome. Especially when I remember to breathe.

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The News

We get the daily newspaper delivered to our house and some days I wish we didn't. Our subscription is a gift from my dad who once said, "I want my grandsons growing up in a house with a newspaper." My problem with the newspaper is that often the headlines and/or front page photos are violent or otherwise disturbing. And of course I know that this is because violent and otherwise disturbing things are happening all around us, but I'm not sure I want my kids seeing those things spread over the kitchen table first thing in the morning.



Jack can read the headlines for himself, but thankfully he mostly pays his attention to the comics. He loves Zits and Peanuts, though the Peanuts humor can sometimes be frustrating to him. He'll spend a few minutes attempting to decipher it. "Mom, I don't get it," he cries. To which I almost always reply, "Nobody does."

Sawyer is all about the Bi-Mart ads. Did you know Bi-Mart sells rifles? This is Sawyer's favorite part of the newspaper. "Mom! MOM! See this GUN! I want this GUN!" To which I almost always reply, "Look at that swimming pool! See those elastic waist jeans? Oooh, canned peaches!"



We are not a gun-toting family. Okay, fine, maybe there was that one time when we packed some heat... but generally speaking we are a passive bunch around here. Which is why I am continuously surprised by my own kids' apparent fascination with weapons.

My friends' daughter was in Boston running the marathon. She's fine. Well, she's not physically hurt, at least. I couldn't stop thinking about their family on Monday. About the time between learning the news and hearing their daughter's voice reassuring them from across the country. About the range of emotions they must have felt. About the relief and the sorrow and the horror. As I lay in bed that night listening to the rhythm of Clementine breathing peacefully in the darkness next to me, I found myself replaying that horrible what if over and over in my head.

When Jack was a toddler he went missing one sunny afternoon. It was the classic "I though you were watching him" moment that all parents experience at some point. Brent and I went looking through the house and calling for him out in the backyard. I remember standing in the living room watching out the window as Brent walked out to the sidewalk in front of our house. My stomach lurched as he threw down his beer and bolted toward the busy road that intersects with our street. Brent reached Jack just as he was stepping off the sidewalk. I couldn't stop shaking for the next hour and as I lay in bed that night my stomach churned and my mind reeled. Every time I closed my eyes I saw what might have happened. What if?

We watched some of the news footage from Boston. Jack wanted to know what had happened and so I tried to delicately explain it to him in terms he would understand. I threw in a handful of "look for the helpers" and hoped that I hadn't said too much.

Jack did not appear to be scared or sad about any of it. Instead he was completely captivated by the idea of a bomb. He wanted to know how bombs work, how to build one, where would someone get the stuff to make one, etc. I noticed he was watching the footage as if it were some replay of an epic touchdown. When Sawyer wandered in Jack said, "Brother, let's go play bombing together!"

And then I pretty much freaked out. I tried to explain, to reason, to create empathy, to invoke a sense of compassion, to... well... to do anything that would get them to stop playing like that. I mean, my god, what was wrong with them?

"But Mom," Jack said, "we're just pretending."
"Yeah, Mom," Sawyer chimed in. "We're just ketending."

Then it hit me. My kids have no concept of death. They don't understand terrorism, or fear, or violence. They don't know hate.They are just kids who are pretending.

So I turned off the TV and I watched as their game evolved into something that required them to jump off the couch and chase the dog around the living room. Jack tickled Clementine and we all laughed. We snuggled on the couch and read books together until bedtime.



And the next morning when the newspaper came, I folded the front page over and tucked it beneath the other sections. I found the comics and placed Peanuts on top. And then I woke Jack up for breakfast.

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15 Reasons to Teach

It seems like there are plenty of articles floating around on the internet lately about why teaching is such a lousy profession. I feel like I see negative things about teaching on a daily basis:  teachers doing terrible things, bullying is out of control in schools, testing testing and more testing, budget crises, staggering statistics about the mass exodus of teachers fleeing the profession, blah, blah, etc. Teachers are overworked and underpaid. As a whole, teaching is an undervalued profession.

And I don’t disagree with any of it. I know it’s happening. We all do.

But I still get excited when I hear someone talking about becoming a teacher. I still encourage people who think they might be interested in teaching to job shadow a teacher or to volunteer in a classroom. 

And I can say with certainty that after teaching 8^th grade English for the past 8 years, I still love teaching.

So why become a teacher? (And no, I’m not going to crack that tired old joke about June, July, and August.) 

1. Kids will think you are smart. I never feel particularly articulate or intelligent when I’m surrounded by a group of adults, but put me in front of a class of middle schoolers and suddenly I am a genius.  


2. Teachers have an awesome schedule, especially if you have kids. I get home from work in time to take my kids to the park or meet up with a friend for a playdate. Or run errands. Or have happy hour.                                                                                                                                          
3. Being a teacher means you know how to deal with your own kids’ teachers. You recognize that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but that you need to be a nice squeaky wheel to get what you want. You know how to make reasonable requests without being a pain in the ass. You remember to conclude every email with a thank you because you know teachers don’t hear those words often enough.


4. You get to know some really amazing human beings. I have had the privilege of working with thousands of insightful and funny kids during the years that I’ve been teaching. I particularly enjoy running into former students and learning where life has taken them. It’s always fascinating to hear what they remember about my class, or how something I said or did resonated or helped them in some way. It’s really fun when they turn 21 and want to go get a beer with you. (I think that might be the ultimate compliment.)


5. You get a classroom. Let’s face it, who doesn’t need an entire extra room to store their stuff? Whenever we clean closets I always find things we don’t use but that I can’t bear to throw away. When in doubt, take it to school! I have all my paperwork from grad school stored in binders on my classroom shelf. I also have an impressive looking collection of pedagogy books that makes me look smart. The reality is that I couldn’t sell them back to the bookstore and have nowhere else to put them.


6. School supplies! I love Post-Its and freshly sharpened pencils. Brightly colored gel pens make me really happy.


7. Teaching is a great outlet for people who are prone to bossiness.  Ahem.


8. You will become a really efficient eater. You only get half an hour for lunch and by the time you sweep the stragglers from your room and head down to the staff room, it's really more like 25 minutes. To avoid rush hour on your way back from lunch, you'll want to leave a few minutes before the bell. Throw in a trip to the bathroom and some time at the microwave and your lunch time is pretty much over. Eating quickly is probably not good for your digestion but this skill might come in handy at some point in your life. You just might win a hot dog eating contest or something.


9. The dress code. Some of my colleagues will (perhaps wisely) disagree with this, but I believe that teaching middle school entitles you to wear things that might be considered age inappropriate. For example, if I worked in a bank I probably wouldn’t own a pair of lilac colored skinny jeans, but they are a hit whenever I wear them to middle school.


10. All of that exposure to germs over the years will give you a super immune system. You also improve your personal hygiene skills. I now wash my hands before and after going to the bathroom.


11. Teachers are always learning. Did you know that the ancient Greeks didn't use napkins? They wiped their hands on pieces of bread and then fed it to their dogs. Me neither. Until yesterday.


12. You will laugh every single day. Sometimes you will laugh to keep from crying. Sometimes you will laugh until you cry. Either way, you will be laughing. Trust me.


13. You will become optimistic about the future. Kids today are thinkers. They are self-aware and they connect with each other in ways my generation never imagined. They are passionate about their causes and they have access to more information than any generation before them. I believe they will do good things with our world.


14. You get to plan your own day. Feeling tired? Let’s do some silent reading today. Feeling ambitious? Let’s throw some Shakespeare and a box full of costumes at 8^th graders and see what happens.


15. Okay, I said I wasn’t going to mention it here, but having your summers off is pretty sweet. I'm not going to lie.

So next time someone tells you they are a teacher, instead of busting out that cliché  “Oh, I’m sorry” or  “I could never do that” just smile and consider saying thank you. It might be the first time he or she has heard that in awhile.

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Easter Etc.

With the acknowledgement that Easter photos are so incredibly last week, I present you with this series of sunlit scenes instead of exhausting myself by trying to find something photogenic in the downpour that's been this weekend.

(That was an awkwardly constructed opening sentence. Maybe it's a good thing I'm being demoted to sixth grade next year. Anyway, photos!)

(Jack is making his mad face because we had just told him for the hundredth time that NO we would not be getting a bunny for Easter. Are you kidding me?)

I did not make organic homemade egg dye. Instead I used my 40% off coupon and my teacher's discount at (fucking) Joann's and paid 70 cents for the cliche Paas egg dying kit, which as it turns out, was money well spent. The kids were all about the little copper egg dipper, the cardboard egg holder, and the bazillions of mini stickers. But I did throw away those stupid shrink wrap egg covers, because those always feel like cheating to me.

I didn't even have time for actual Easter baskets this year. There's been a lot of internet chatter lately about Pinterest fueled overachieving crafty moms making the rest of us look bad. I say let them have their Saint Patrick's Day golden coin hunts or gift leaving leprechauns, or whatever. I'm just happy that I remembered to tell my kids to wear green.

We try to keep things pretty simple for Easter. I hide some candy around the house, the kids get a new pair of pajamas, and that's about it. This year I got too lazy to make the pajamas and so they came from Costco (more on this later) and I stitched up two quick pairs of Star Wars shorts (which were a huge hit), threw in a chocolate bunny, and we called it good.

(Except that it wasn't good. Jack was up at 5, loudly scavenging for Easter eggs. When Brent intercepted this there was a major meltdown about waiting for everyone to get up. I am seriously ready to consider boycotting any holiday that involves a mythical creature coming in the night to deliver shit to my kids.)

Some of you might know that I have this weird phobia about Costco. I find the entire concept of the store to be overwhelming and while buying in bulk might ultimately save me some money, I have a total fear of commitment when it comes to gigantic boxes of granola bars, for example.

But these kids eat. And eat. And then they eat some more. So I decided to face my fears head on and make the trek. Thankfully my mother-in-law and her Costco card were up for the adventure.

Things I liked about Costco:

• Bag of perfectly ripened avocados for $5- that is a deal!
• Easter jammies!
• Maple syrup jug. Big old bottle of vanilla. Salmon burgers. Butter lettuce.
• 10 pounds of oatmeal. 10 pounds!
• Coffee. Yes, I know, fair trade and all that. But sometimes I just want a really big bag of coffee around so we won't run out.

Things I am not yet sold on about Costco:

• I spent $270 in one hour. Ouch.
• My family can, apparently, eat 4 pounds of trail mix in one week. That's 4 pounds more than we usually eat. Ahem.
• 48 fruit leathers. Good god. Who needs that many fruit leathers? 
•  The milk jugs. You need some superior dexterity to pour that milk without spilling it. It's a learning curve, all right.

 So I guess I am still on the fence about Costco and whether or not you actually save money by shopping there. What do you think? Do you shop at Costco? What do you buy? Any advice for the Costco newbie?

(Oh, and yes I already know that I should be shopping local and not giving my money to major corporations and such. But I also probably shouldn't drive an SUV or throw away the occasional forgotten Tupperware from the back of the fridge. I should probably make my own organic Easter egg dye, too...)

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