Reflection Friday

I used to think I looked pretty good in teal blue but evidently that is up for debate. I had three people yesterday ask me if I was feeling well. Was it my face, my eyes, or the way I was standing? Did I remember to put make-up on that morning? I thought I did. I'm long overdue for a dye job, that is for sure. I have gray threads popping up all over my part. I tried to get my teenage son to pluck some out the other day and after removing six silver springs, he handed me the tweezers and told me there were too many and he didn't have all day. I've tried to yank them myself but I couldn't see them to get a hold of them. It is time to look in the mirror, step back on the scale, and take a walk on the treadmill. Some new glasses wouldn't hurt either. Why is it so hard to make time to take care of myself?

One Little Word Wednesday: Thread

First day of school was a foggy one.

Tuesday evening at 9:21 pm

I looked up my son's bus number on the school website for the second or third time. He'd have to be at the stop by about 6:50 AM.

Bus 81

First pickup at Lincoln Rd. & Robinwood Dr. at 6:44 a.m. Left on Robinwood Dr., left on S. Dixie Hwy., right on Kay Dr. picking up at Aimy Dr. Right on Poplar Dr. picking up at Teakwood Dr. Lef ton Teakwood Dr., left on Raven Parkway, right on Timber Lane, right on E. Dartmoor, left on Charing Cross to pickup. Left on Wimbledon Park Dr. picking up at Woodpine Dr. Left on Woodpine Dr. picking up at W. Dartmoor Dr. Right on Timber Lane, right on W. Brookshire Dr. picking up at Shadowood Dr. Left on S. Dixie Hwy., right on Northfield Dr. picking up to Wildwood Dr. Left on Wildwood Dr. picking up in middle of block. Left on Kay Dr. picking up at Nobil Dr. Right on Nobil Dr., right on W. Albain Rd. picking up to S. Telegraph Rd.

In my mind, I could visualize bus 81 threading through the neighborhood streets, stopping to pick up half-asleep teenagers. My son would have to get up at 6:00 and I would sip coffee as I watched the bus doors clap behind him as he headed to the back of the bus to snooze. I always feel better watching him actually get on the bus, even though he is 15.

 

Posted with Blogsy

How Bad Would It Be to Just Throw It All Away?

A box of my super important office stuff.

This morning's tech inservice ended early so I had time to race home to meet the nurse so we could check and repack my son's wound. That left enough time to eat a lunch of Twizzlers and Diet Coke on the way to school. I was anxious to dig into my new office space and clean, throw-out, and re-arrange. Outside, it was pouring. Really pouring. I wrapped several piles of books in plastic bags and loaded them into my trunk along with some crates. I parked close to one of the side doors of the school and put my bagged-up books in my teacher cart and wheeled in the first of many loads. By the time I made it in the building, I was soaked. I squeaked down the long hallway, pulling my teacher cart behind me. When I reached my office, I flipped on the switch and stood in the doorway, dripping. Before I could even bring any of my own stuff in the room, I would have to go through the bookshelves and purge dozens of ancient speech exercise books. I left my own junk in the hallway and started unloading the bookshelves. At first, I considered each resource manual. I paged through them thinking about whether or not it contained anything I might use during the coming school year. When I started to find my own name written on the inside covers of some of the resource books I began pitching most of them into a large plastic storage bin. Half of these speech drill books were mine when I was a speech therapist for the district twenty years ago. Good grief.

Posted with Blogsy

One Little Word Wednesday: Thread

"Could you take these in?"

Her blue eyes looked at me sweetly. She held two silky tank tops toward me.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, I got them on clearance but they are a little big and when I raise my arms you can sort of see my bra. I'll put them on if you want to see what I mean?" She slipped the peach one over her head.

"I learned how to use the sewing machine in the costume shop when I worked at the play house this summer. I could probably do it myself. I just need to sew the sides, right?" We both knew she had no intention of altering the blouses herself.

I considered the baggy armholes, pulled open my sewing desk drawer, grabbed my pin cusion, and began pinching and pinning the extra fabric on both side seams. After the peach top was marked, she lifted it carefully over her head to avoid getting poked. We repeated the process with the magenta top. I checked my drawer for coordinating thread but came up short.

"You're going to have to get me some matching thread if you want me to fix these." I looked at her hoping she would decide that shopping for thread was too much trouble. But instead she put her blouses in a plastic Kroger sack and set off for Hobby Lobby. I really didn't feel like I had time to alter two blouses that would end up in a wad on my daughter's apartment floor. But I did. She had to leave Thursday to go back to college.

Posted with Blogsy

Lessons in Wound Care

I'm learning more about wound care than I ever anticipated.

Sweet rain. I sat in my car in my driveway and listened. As I reclined my seat, I closed my eyes. Thunder. The taps of rain grew stronger and louder against the roof and windows. There was no need to worry about the groceries in the trunk. No ice cream to melt or milk to spoil. As the rain began to let up, I knew I would have to shlep the bags into the house, put everything away, then check on my son. He usually slept about an hour after each dressing change. I think it was a combination of the oxycodone and the stress of dealing with having several inches of sterile Kerlix poked and pushed into the gaping cavities created by that wretched pilonidal cyst. Wound packing occured twice daily. Learning the tools and procedures of this process nearly caused me to pass out when I first saw my son's wound after his surgery. Watching the surgeon pull the packing out as my son shook and cried out in pain was almost too much to bare.

The rain slowed to a sprinkle and I left my car cocoon and unloaded the groceries. I grabbed the bag containing cotton tip applicators, which are like Q-tips only longer and packaged to be sterile, and took them up to my his room. I was right. He was still sleeping. I put the applicators next to the other supplies on a table near his bed and watched him sleeping for a bit. He was only fifteen but he looked much older with his muscled 6' 2" frame and scruffy facial hair. He is still my brave little boy.

 

Posted with Blogsy

One Little Word Wednesday: Thread

The first happy vegetables from my
garden. :)

I'm growing tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers for the first time. My garden is more like a patch, very small with five tomato plants, five pepper plants (one died), and three cucumber plants. I harvested my first cuke and three banana peppers yesterday. I really don't know squat about growing things. As a kid, my dad's garden took up most of the backyard. I liked being in the backyard among the beans, tomatoes, and strawberries. Somehow my little patch stitches me to my childhood summers. Summers meant sewing projects, riding my bike to the pool, and sitting in my crab apple tree pretending to be Julie Andrews or Karen Carpenter and surveying the progress of my dad's vegetables. Summers meant getting bored too, which wasn't a bad thing at all. When I was a child, having nothing to do wasn't something that was advertised too loudly. Complaining about being bored resulted in cleaning and weeding. As an adult, I am seldom if ever bored, which must be why my house tends to be a mess and there are weeds in my garden. When I go out this morning and survey my patch, I won't be sitting in a tree or singing. I'll be drinking tea and humming threads of Wouldn't It be Loverly.

Body Just Quit

I haven’t been playing much on Pinterest since before the SOL Challenge. In fact, I haven't posted on my blog much more than once per week since the challenge. I’ve been more focused on getting a job. I am glad to say that last Friday, I found out that I have a position, a new position within my district. I was doing some testing with a student when I heard a tap, tap, tapping at my door. One of my principals and another administrator, both of whom I have deep respect for, entered the room with news on their faces. I was told I had a coaching position but that I would be moving to another building. One of the administrators continued to talk but I really didn’t hear. I was stunned. Overwhelmed. Another move. Put on your game face. Don’t cry. I felt clammy. After they left, I sat in my chair and stared at the floor, the table, the wall, then back to the door. No tears yet. Then I moved to my desk and continued to tinker with a smart board lesson I had started working on earlier in the morning. I knew that the pair of administrators was in the process of telling one of my teaching partners across the hall that she also got one of the new coaching positions and she would also be moving.

By the end of the day, the clammy feeling had turned to chills. My sinuses were draining and the familiar sore throat was starting. I could tell my ears were filling with fluid. By Saturday, I figured I would have a full blown sinus infection. And I did. When the nurse at the Urgent Care took my temp it was 101 degrees. No wonder I felt shivery on Friday. The diagnosis was a double ear infection and sinus infection. I left with a Z-pac and headed to Walgreens for more Motrin and decongestant. I just wanted to sleep. My lids begged to close to shield my eyes from the sunshine. And that was that. My body refused to be pushed any further. I had to go to bed. The laundry and kitchen floor would have to wait. My teenage son would have to feed himself and my husband would have to go to Kroger’s and empty the litter boxes.

So what does all of this have to do with Pinterest? The thing about sinus infections is that they make me so tired but I can’t sleep because breathing is a challenge. Pinterest is fairly mindless. I can repin things that strike me and “like” the items that pique my interest but I want to look at more closely prior to pinning. Right now, mindless pinning is a useful distraction.

So This Is What Spring Is Like?

Last year's residents of the nest
in our pear tree out front. 

This post was inspired by a poem by Michelle at Literacy Zone. Her poem made me think about how our mild winter has felt strange and that I kept anticipating we would get more snow and ice, but we never did. Winter never returned and now I can hear the robins chattering to each other this morning as I write. I wonder if a pair will take up residence in the perfectly good nest in the crook of the pear tree out front. Of course, they would have to spruce it up a bit. I've been so busy with the demands of school that I haven’t really surveyed the yard for winter damage yet. At this time of year where I live, the snow shovels, ice scrapers and down coats are still in use. On Easter, it is usually freezing, even snowy and little girls wear sweaters with their spring dresses at church. We dare not plant perennials until after Mother’s Day or they would freeze and die but I’m not sure that would happen this year. This year, we are actually having spring, at least I’m guessing that’s what it is. This weekend is predicted to be glorious; seventy-five, sun, and a light breeze. My husband is planning on putting the screens back up today. Unbelievable for Michigan in March. 

My Latest Excuse for Not Exercising: Writing

I have been thinking a lot about a post written by Mary from The View From My World comparing the rigors of the SOL challenge with starting an exercise program. I couldn’t agree more. It feels the same. Carving out the time to write and post daily adds to my to do list. It either adds to it or it has to take the place of something else. For me, daily writing means less sleep and less watching my husband watch TV. And interestingly, the TV thing bothers him greatly. But the rewards of daily writing have been huge, amazing, and so very worth it. Although, as Mary said, there are days when it doesn’t feel fun. I have also found that daily writing has become an excellent excuse not to exercise as much as I should. So does that mean that exercise, even though it is good for you, is even less fun than writing? Okay, so I’ll get on the treadmill after I’m done with my post, that is if I’m not too tired or my husband doesn't want me to watch him watch reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond.

Waiting Room

I spent a couple hours at the local Urgent Care on Saturday morning. I didn’t make it there until well after 9:00 and the small waiting room was packed: a young couple with a baby, a toddler, and a little boy no older than 5, an elderly couple, a woman in her twenties holding a small waste basket under her chin, a man in his thirties, and an older man who looked to be around 50 or 60. As I waited my turn, a woman wearing sweats, flip flops, and an over-sized man’s coat came in the door, signed the register and sat in one of the only remaining seats in the waiting room.  In my sinus infected stupor, I stared at a TV hung high on the wall. The lady on the weather channel was describing the devastating damage from the tornadoes that had screamed through Indiana the night before.

“Sheila,” the receptionist called. The woman in sweats went up to the front window.

“We can’t accept your insurance so if you want to see a doctor, it will cost sixty dollars.”

 The woman sighed in defeat and turned and left the doctor’s office. Just then, the young woman with the wastebasket began throwing up.

A nurse opened the door that led to the examining rooms.

“Diana,” she called.

My diagnosis was a double ear infection and a sinus infection. The Urgent Care had an in-house pharmacy which saved me a trip to CVS. I walked out of the Urgent Care with my antibiotics feeling both relieved and guilty. On the way home I kept thinking about the woman in sweats. I wondered how sick she was. I wondered if she would return with $60.00 or if she ended up not going to a doctor at all. 

Things Could Be A Lot Worse

Letting Go
photo by Lindsey Emerson

“Do you realize that you have been on the computer since we got home from church?” he said.


This was a pretty gutsy question given that he had spent the day playing Madden NFL 12 and planned on parking his fanny on the couch all evening to watch the Super Bowl.

“And the problem is . . . ?” I fired back at him.

He hesitated, obviously planning out what he was going to say next.

“You have that resume done?” he said.

I peered at him over my glasses, angry. Angry and hurt that he felt he needed to remind me that my position at school had been eliminated for next year. Angry that he was right. Angry that every time I tried to start, I became paralyzed. Talk about writer’s block. I rationalized that I would start the resume when the job descriptions for the new positions were posted. The truth be told, I was choosing not to start. Starting felt like letting go and I hadn’t let go just yet. Starting was admitting that I was going to have to reinvent myself if I planned on staying employed. I still haven’t started. Eventually I’ll have to get off my pity pot.

Desperation

Image from Microsoft Word,
edited in Picnik.

I started hearing the helicopters circling our neighborhood about 5:00 am Monday morning. My husband left for work about 6:30 but then returned just as my son was to get on the bus. He informed me that there were several police cars in the area and he suspected that they were on the hunt for someone or something. I wanted my almost 15-year-old son to wait in the car with me as we watched for the bus but he told me I was silly for worrying. I didn't really think he was in danger but I also didn't like the idea of him standing outside by himself. After my son got on the bus, I left for school. I arrived at 7:05 and the director of the before school child care program met me at the door. There were no other teachers in the building. She told me that there had been an armed robbery at a nearby Sunoco station and the police were looking for the suspect. Armed . . . meaning gun. How could this have happened so close to my school, so close to my home? I couldn't imagine ever being so desperate as to wave a gun in someone's face and demand money. How would I feel if I had been the clerk behind the cash register?  Later in the day, details about the suspect were reported: white, male, early 60’s, 5’ 8”, 200 lbs, beard stubble, wearing dark clothes. The police have not found him yet but they don’t believe he is still in the area, whatever that means. So if he isn't around here, where is he?

Have Some Cheese with that Whine

I am an early riser. My body likes to go to bed before 9:00, if I can manage it, and get up around 4:00 am. As soon as I get up, I feed my cats and put the water on for the tea. While the tea is brewing in my preferred mug, I scoop the litter and wake up my laptop. I keep all the downstairs lights off except the task light by my computer and the light from the stove hood. As I sip my tea, I check school and home email and Facebook. And I write. Lately, I’ve been writing a lot in my journal. It feels like I’m in a cycle of complaining. Complaining about stupid little crap that doesn’t matter. For example, did my husband have to put the trick-or-treat bowl overflowing with Reece cups, Snickers, and Butterfinger right by my computer. He knows I can't stay out of it. Did both my kids have to lose/destroy their phones on the the same darn day? Really? On the same day? And why does my daughter keep dyeing her hair and piercing things? Geez, Diana, move on already.

This is Roxy, my proofreader (explains a lot), crit partner, and
loyal fan of TWT. She is sick of my whining too.

The Temperature is Starting to Drop

For the last several weeks, my SOL’s have been about literacy coaching. Partly, because I felt I needed to stretch my comfort with informational writing. I figured I should be able to do what I ask kids to do. And I do believe that my thinking about the range of informational writing has broadened. My other purpose for  writing about coaching is to document who I am and what I do as a professional.  As I’ve said before, you can’t be a wimp and be a literacy coach and a particularly brutal winter is being predicted for Michigan this year. New visions of who I should be and how I will spend my time are coming down the road like a snow plow. A path is being cleared. Nothing I can do. I’m not even sure who is really driving the truck. It will be interesting to see if my thinking ends up crushed like an unfortunate mailbox positioned too close to the road. Will my ongoing work or the insight of my fellow cliff divers count for anything? The weatherman is predicting snowflakes as early as the end of the week.

Text for this word cloud came from The Coach and
the Evaluator by Bob and Megan Tschannen-Moran,
an article in the October 2011 issue of
 Education Leadership.

And That's Why We Teach

Summer school felt like a grind this year. My job was to implement intensive small group literacy instruction with struggling kindergarten students.  I worked with seven groups of three kids, back-to-back, for 3 ½ hours. I pushed myself hard to fully prepare each lesson so that sessions would click along quickly and transitions between each group would take only a minute or two.  All that prep required many extra hours. As much as I enjoyed the children, I felt burned out. I began to regret spending most of my summer working.

Yesterday I started formally evaluating students.  One little boy, Jacob, began the summer refusing to even point at a word and he said things like, “I don’t want to read. I don’t like it.” When I assessed Jacob on Monday he said, “I can really read now!” and “I think my reading muscles grew!”  I needed to hear him say those words as he smiled and looked like he could climb a mountain. I needed to see that candle flicker in his eyes as he sat tall in his chair.  I needed to watch him skip down the hallway in his flip flops announcing to every passerby, “Hey, I got smarter!”  

Fabric Therapy

In late May, One Sunflower wrote a post about using fabrics to stimulate ideas. Her inspiring post gave me the idea to write about my mom's sewing room. 

My mom's sewing room is a safe haven. Ideas happen there. Last week when I visited my mother, we hung out in her sewing room and pawed through her fabric. She didn't say much when I grabbed my camera and began snapping pictures of her drawers of color-themed quarter-of-a-yard slices of cotton. She conferred with me. Mostly simple questions like, "What are you going to do with the pictures?" or "What are you going to make?" I could feel her looking at me with both curiosity and trust. As I continued taking the pictures, I began to like the way the natural arrangement of the swatches filled the square space of the camera screen. On the drive home, I wondered what it might look like if I arranged the photos like quilt blocks.

Once I walked in the door, my kids and husband quickly began firing questions and demands requests  at me. My photo quilt would have to wait. I did manage to scribble a few notes before starting dinner. With dishes done and litter boxes emptied, I began the delicious process of edited and playing with the photos to create the quilts. I vaguely remember hearing my husband someone complaining, "Geez, she is at the computer agaaaaaaaainn!" I didn't let the heckler deter me. I was in the zone. My revising didn't feel tedious. It just felt like I was following an idea. 



 



Wannabe Gardener

My dad was and still is an avid gardener. Growing up, every house we lived in had a vegetable garden. My sister, Liz, is also a dedicated gardener. I've dabbled here and there over the years but never seemed able to devote the time and love required to really grow a garden. When I came across these cute little pots at Target, I thought, aha! I had found the lazy tired stressed cheap busy teacher's solution to growing a vegetable garden. The box said that the parsley seeds were guaranteed to grow. And they did! I'm supposed to transfer the plants to a bigger pot when they reach 3 inches tall.

My vegetable garden by the sink.

Called to Be a Teacher But Not Called Back

On April 12, 2011, three hundred and forty-three teachers received pink slips in my school district. Yesterday, I found out that 6 teachers in the building I work in are not being called back. Some of them may end up being called back after all the bumping and shuffling of teachers is completed. Maybe. Nothing is certain. I can't imagine what these teachers must be feeling. And selfishly, I hope I never do.

Today, in the lounge, a place I rarely go, one of the displaced teachers talked excitedly about several of her struggling students and the progress they had made since the beginning of the school year. She wasn't complaining about her uncertain future or personal worries. Despite her own numbing stress, she was still focused on her students. It isn't fair. It isn't fair that a teacher, who so obviously should be a teaching, should lose her job.  

Saturday Morning Reflection

Today is one of those mornings when writing feels extra hard. I already spent an hour rereading old writer's notebooks looking for something that might spur an idea. My brain is just all over the place. I've got to get something down before you-know-who wakes up or I will get the "she's-at-the-computer" look again or "I thought you had a lot to do today" scowl.

 Crap, I hear him in the bathroom. I'm screwed now. It is still dark out. It's raining. Maybe he'll crawl back into bed. Nope. I don't hear the sound the bed makes when he plops back down. That means he is putting on shoes and sweats and on his way down. I wonder if he will go to the gym. If he does, he'll walk by and I will get the look. I wonder which one, he has so many. Wow, that sounded pretty mean. I  put the stools up on the island so it looks like I'm starting to clean the kitchen floor. I also throw a load in the washer. I do have a lot to do today. It is my son's confirmation. The food is ready. I just have to pick up the cake and potato salad, iron his shirt and pants, and clean. Geez I hate cleaning.

 He hasn't come down yet. Maybe he did go back to bed.  My cat Fred is rubbing on my foot and purring. He never resents the time I spend writing. Listening. Listening. Silence. Now I feel guilty. The poor guy could still be sleeping and here I am complaining about him and he didn't even do anything. He has a busy day too. He has to pick up my daughter from college. She is my son's confirmation sponsor. When she talked to me yesterday, she told me she got something pierced and it looks really cute. Doubt it. I wonder if my husband will notice when he picks her up. Washer stopped. Listening. Still quiet up there. Nope. Nope. Here he comes. Down the steps.

An Unwanted Sign of Spring

The weather is a perfect 83 degrees with a warm west wind. The trees, covered in ice just a few short weeks ago, are now budding. New growth. Unfortunately, that isn't the only new growth that has occurred in the last few weeks. When I went to try on my spring pants, they wouldn't stretch, zip, or snap around my new growth. No, I am not pregnant. Time to get back to the, dare I say it, gym. It isn't that I hate the gym, I just don't want to go. I'd rather complain and whine and make excuses why I've put on ten pounds. Actually, I think it is more like 12. I'll get on the scale tomorrow.