No photos, please!

I'm just over six months along in this journey called cancer.

The range of emotions has changed over the months, weeks, days, and even hours. There are some days when it is all I think about. And there are other days where I can go for hours and forget. There are times when I am a tower of strength, and then there are moments when that tower collapses into tiny bits of  dust.

When I started chemotherapy, I was advised to "take lots of photos." I couldn't imagine why I would possibly want to do that. I swore off cameras, phones with camera, and for a while, mirrors.

Why would I want to take a photograph, a still moment in time, a permanent image of a time in my life that I never want to revisit?

It's not like someday, years from now, I am going to bored and think, "What should I do today? Oh yeah, let me pull out my cancer photo album." It's not an album I'd bring out at a dinner party to share with guests.

The image in the mirror will last a lifetime in my memory.

I don't need photos to remind me.

Walking down the hallway at work, perusing the grocery store aisle, or pumping my gas at the local gas station, the average person wouldn't look at me and see a cancer patient. I make sure that my make-up is fresh, my eyeliner is dark, and my eyebrows are penciled in. I have a wig, that really, is a good wig. It came with roots and all. Most people can't believe that it's not my real hair. I appreciate their compliments. Until my breast reconstruction is complete, I have to stuff the left-hand side of my bra. I cover my collar bone because the radiation is now leaving me a lovely shade of crimson.

But when evening closes in, the wig comes off, the make-up remover erases my face, my "stuffing" comes out, and my redness shows, I am constantly reminded that this journey is not over. Yes, I am officially cancer-free, but the aesthetic side effects last longer. It's not easy to look at myself every day in the mirror, and I can't imagine taking photos unless I'm all "made up."

Those close to me (or at least my Facebook friends) have seen some recent photos. I'm all made up, so no one would be the wiser. But know this: with the exception of a family photo shoot, the only photos I have taken since my diagnosis have all been since I was declared cancer-free.

I don't want to look back at any photos and say, "That's when I had cancer."

I only want to see photos of myself cured.

So, thank you to those who offered advice, urging me to photographically document this journey. But I just couldn't do it.

I had even planned on blogging more, but I think for the same reason, I didn't want my entire life to become about cancer. So, now, I plan to blog more.

Now that the cancer is over...

Stronger

Typically, when someone wants to break up with someone, the cliche used is: "It's not you, it's me." 

Well, not in this case.

Dear Cancer,

It's time we had a talk. It's over. This "relationship" we've shared, we're finished. And this time, it's you, not me.

You showed up unexpectedly.
You settled into my life, my home, my family, and my body. You were unwanted here.
You took away my security and my peace.
You wrecked my sanity.
You caused me to question my faith.
You had me take time away from a job that I love.
You caused me to need medicines that made me sick.
You took my hair away from me.
You canceled vacations.
You made me unable to sunbathe this summer. You made me hate mealtime.
You crushed my self-esteem.
You made me lose time with my children.
You denied me kisses from my children when they were sick.
You hindered my ability to hug my kids, my husband, or anyone else who wanted hugs.
You gave me scars.
You hospitalized me for the first time in my life for an illness.
You put me in an operating room three times.
You made me have blood transfusions.
You have made my family cry.
You have caused financial hardships.
You made me scared of the future.


Despite our inability to get along, you did cause me to learn some things and make changes in my life for the better. So thank you for the following things:

You strengthened my marriage.
You reminded me to hug and kiss my children every chance I get.
You taught me to not take the little things for granted.
You have forced me to book vacations that wouldn't ordinarily have happened.
You're helping me write my bucket list - a real one this time.
You've taught me who my real friends are.
You pushed me toward God and prayer more than any other time in my life. Take that Satan.
You've restored my faith in human kind.
You helped me lose the rest of my baby weight, and then some. (There have to be some perks, right?)
You've rekindled friendships that I thought were gone forever.
You've brought back family members who were lost.
You've allowed me to appreciate the little things.
You let me play in the rain with my boys and not worry about getting wet.
You've taught me how strong I really can be.
You've allowed me to learn how to ask for help.
You've taught me that spending time with my kids is more important than a vacuumed house.
You're teaching me that beauty and strength are found on the inside.
You've made me promise to "pay it forward" for all the kindness we've been shown.
You're causing the stirrings of ministry opportunities for me to start.


So Cancer, I leave you with the lyrics to a song. If you didn't get the message before, perhaps Kelly Clarkson can sum it all up for you. Good-bye.

"What Doesn't Kill You (Stronger)"

You know the bed feels warmer
Sleeping here alone
You know I dream in color
And do the things I want

You think you got the best of me
Think you've had the last laugh
Bet you think that everything good is gone
Think you left me broken down
Think that I'd come running back
Baby you don't know me, cause you're dead wrong

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
Stand a little taller
Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone
What doesn't kill you makes a fighter
Footsteps even lighter
Doesn't mean I'm over cause you're gone

You heard that I was starting over with someone new
They told you I was moving on, over you

You didn't think that I'd come back
I'd come back swinging
You try to break me, but you see
Thanks to you I got a new thing started
Thanks to you I'm not the broken-hearted
Thanks to you I'm finally thinking about me
You know in the end the day you left was just my beginning

Yes, cancer sucks.

When I was a little girl, my parents taught me that the word "suck" was akin to profanity, so I never used it. As I got older, I realized it wasn't that bad, and put it to occasional use. Well, since my diagnosis of breast cancer, the word "suck" comes to mind at least once a day. And it will appear multiple times throughout this blog, so here's the apology to my parents: "I'm sorry I'm using the word 'suck.' Sometimes, nothing else will do."
**************************************

I am about nine weeks into this journey known as breast cancer. Someone had told me going into it that I would start to experience a "new daily normal." I didn't know at the time what that meant, but I do now. I constantly hear phrases like, "Wow, you look great," or "You're handling this so well!"

And my response is usually somewhat of the same. "Thanks. I don't have a choice to handle it otherwise, do I?"  And what I mean is this: I could get up every day, refuse to put on make up, jewelry, or clean clothes. I could mope around the house, or worse yet, stay in bed all day. I could have a crappy attitude, shut myself off from everyone, and never leave the house. But why? The person I'd be hurting most is myself, followed by my immediate family. And what would that accomplish? Nothing. A friend asked me, "But aren't you mad?"  Well, sure. I'm pissed off. I didn't want cancer. But walking around like that all the time won't help.

Then I hear, "And you're handling this with such grace..."  Well, I have it on good authority that grace can be defined by not just what you say, but what you don't say. Because if everyone heard my daily, inner monologue, "grace" may not be the word that would first come to mind. Because cancer sucks. It S.U.C.K.S.  And here's how. (This will be my one and only pity-party-blog, so indulge me.)

Cancer sucks when I wake up in the morning. When I've slept eight hours without my own thoughts. In my dreams, I still have hair. Iwake up, feel no hair on my pillow, and adjust my shoulder from where my port is located, I'm reminded that I'm a cancer patient.

Cancer sucks when I get ready in the morning. When I peruse my closet, looking at my pretty nice wardrobe and wonder, "What will take the emphasis off the fact that I'm wearing a wig?" I miss my hair. There's a bald woman standing in the mirror where I used to be. Then I look in the mirror, hoping that my eyebrows didn't just magically fall off over night, thankful that they are still there, for at least one more day.

Cancer sucks on chemo days.  I sit in a room full of people who are old enough to be my grandparents. We all share similar stories. I'm pumped full of drugs with more letters in their names than some middle-Eastern countries, and I know that within hours, my body will be feeling like it's been run over by a truck. A big one. 

Cancer sucks the days after chemo. The tiredness isn't too bad, and it's a good excuse to slip away for a nap, but otherwise - it sucks. My mouth feels like it's full of cotton; like I haven't brushed my teeth in days. My stomach churns and has sharp, shooting pains. Food has no taste. I'll omit the rest of the yucky details.

Cancer sucks when it comes to my self-esteem.  It may sound like I'm some vain, self-centered, conceited woman. The truth is just the opposite. I've never felt amazingly beautiful. Then add to this that I just had a third baby. First, I hate my body. I hate my body for what it allowed itself to do. How dare it get cancer!?! I feel like it betrayed me. I hate what I look like bald.  I hate that my husband has a bald wife. He tells me I'm beautiful; I know he believes that; but it is hard to FEEL beautiful. I hate that I now have scars. Up to this point, the only surgery I'd ever had were my wisdom teeth. I now have s.c.a.r.s.  I've never had those before. One is under my arm from a lymph-node removal, and the other is near my collar bone where my port is inserted. That one is visible with certain shirts. All this combined makes it hard to feel very confident.

So, there you go, the inner-workings of my brain. Cancer really does suck. But choosing our attitude is what makes the difference. I said from the beginning that I would fight this because I didn't have any other choice. And I live that each day.

Yes, this sucks. Yes, I'm mad. But I'm a fighter.
And I don't accept failure.
Not this time.

Hair Apologies

In the shower today, my hair started to fall out.

I'd been waiting for it, but with each passing day of not losing a single strand, I alluded myself to thinking that I would be some superhero chemo patient who kept her hair.  But...

Apparently, I'm what the oncologist referred to as "average."  The "average" chemo patient starts to lose their hair by the second treatment. Well, I have my second treatment this week.

As I felt strands of hair between my fingers, and the tears started to flow, I thought back to my life with my hair. And I felt a sudden need to apologize to my locks.

*************************************************

Dear Hair:

We've been together a long time now. But we need to talk. It's not you; It's me. I'm what they call "average." We're going to have to go our separate ways for awhile, but don't worry, I'll come back for you. In the meantime, I wanted to say that I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for perming you in 1991 at the tender age of 10. It was a mistake, and for the frizzy curls you didn't deserve, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for not learning my lesson and perming you again in 1995. Let's just leave it at that.

I'm sorry for not appreciating your length and always wanting to cut you.

I'm sorry for not appreciating the natural brunette color you so desperately wanted to be. And for the torture I put you through in trying to change the color.

I'm sorry for the at-home highlights and the terrible cap procedures.

I'm sorry for the entire first year of college when the University's water system was overflowing with chlorine and it inadvertently dyed you green.

I'm sorry for the time in college when I wanted to get you high-lighted, but didn't have a ton of money. I went to a walk-in salon and walked out a strange shade of yellow.

I'm sorry for the years of trying to do it myself and turning you a rainbow of different colors, ranging from yellow to green to orange to black.

I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you. Now, I'm just sorry that you're leaving."They say" you'll come back even better than you were before. Either way, just come back soon. I'll miss you.

Life Chaperone

Chaperone: A person who accompanies and looks after another person 

_________________________________________________________

 

I met Nathan when I was fourteen and a freshman in high school.

 

He was a senior.

 

The older boy. Gasp.

 

I had always thought he was super cute. He even offered me a ride to a friend's birthday party after a chorus concert one night, but my parents declined on my behalf because I wasn't allowed to ride in a car driven by another teenager. I was surprised he even knew who I was, but that was enough for me.

 

He graduated high school and went into the military. I dated other boys throughout high school. I did become friends with his two brothers, and I even got to know his parents because they chaperoned many chorus trips.

 

My senior year approached, and our choir was asked to sing at Carnegie Hall in New York City. I worked all summer to save up for the trip in April of 1999. I had heard that he was going to be on leave from the military at the same time, flying through New York on his way home to Florida. His brothers would be on the chorus trip, and his parents would be chaperones. As a family, they decided that he would stop in New York with all of us, be a "chaperone," and then fly home to Florida for the rest of his leave time.

 

I heard he'd be on the trip with us. I hadn't seen him in years, but I was so excited to see him again. I don't know why; it's not like we had had any sort of connection before. Something inside was stirring.

 

While God knew what was going to happen, I thought I was taking matters into my own hands. I was supposed to be in my best friend's mom's chaperone group. Well, at the last minute, I changed groups to be in Nathan's dad's group because I knew they'd hang out together the whole day. I very quickly made myself known, re-introduced myself, and clung on like white on rice.

 

And this time, he noticed me.

 

By lunchtime of the first day, we took our first picture together at South Street Seaport.

 

By that afternoon, he grabbed my hand to cross 5th Avenue. (He hasn't let go since.)

 

I called my mom that evening from the hotel lobby's payphone. The conversation went something like this:

 

Me: "Hi Mom."

Mom: "Hi! How's New York City???"
Me: "Great. Do you remember Nathan, from chorus?"

Mom: "Yeah, why?"

Me: "Because I'm going to marry him someday."

Mom: "Didn't I just leave you at the airport?"

 

People started to notice that we were hanging out. And they started to ask questions.

 

Two evenings later, on April 23, 1999, we had - what we consider - our first "date." We saw the same Broadway show (Miss Saigon), had pizza together at Sbarro's underneath the World Trade Center, and when he dropped me off at the elevator doors in the hotel, he kissed me.

 

And we've been together ever since.

 

We dated for three years long distance. And I don't mean long distance like some do - we were in different countries - no, make that different continents. I was in Orlando; he was in Italy. Then he was in Pensacola, Florida. Then he was stationed on the JFK Aircraft Carrier that deployed to the Middle East.

 

In August 2002, we were married.

 

I don't know how I knew that he was "the one." It was just the feeling that it was supposed to be. That I had found "home."

 

He was supposed to be my "chaperone" that trip. Google defines a chaperone as someone who looks out for someone else. Well, 13 years later, he's still my "chaperone," always looking out for me, taking care of me, and protecting me.

 

A trip of a lifetime...

Powder

Some of you may have recently seen my Facebook post about my three-year old "decorating" his bedroom and bathroom with the contents of a medium-sized container of baby powder. It took an hour to clean up, learning quickly that baby powder mixed with water creates something similar in consistency to wallpaper glue.

 

While it was inconvenient, I did have to laugh at the situation. I should have taken pictures; it would make my story that much more compelling.

 

In an effort to lighten the mood in the teachers lounge at lunchtime, I thought to share my evening's story. In attendance were three other teachers - two of whom have raised children, and one who has never had children.

 

I received laughs, giggles, and tales from the other mothers as to what their children used to do to their rooms while unsupervised - paint, powder, and poop were all used as artistic mediums.

 

However, the woman who had never had children of her own looked appalled and disgusted.

 

"And what exactly was he thinking?" she asked, shaking her head disapprovingly.

 

"He wasn't. He's three," I answered.

 

"Well, I know that, but what was his thought process? He must have had one," she begged.

 

"Like I said, he's three. There was no thought process. He's three," I repeated once more for good measure.

 

"Ugh, the joys of motherhood, I suppose," she lamented.

 

And the conversation ended there.

 

So, I got to thinking.

 

What had his thought process been? I'm sure my sweet, little, three-year old boy didn't lie awake at night, plotting ways to make my day busier. I'm sure he didn't think to himself, "Wow, my mommy and daddy don't have enough to do, and my room sure could use a cleaning, so let me find the finest substance around that would be the hardest to clean out of carpets and spread it around like snow."

 

My little man's actions weren't malicious, mean, or vindictive. There was no ulterior motive. There was no revenge. No malice. No hatred. There was no other thought process, other than, "Wow, this is fun." So, while it was inconvenient and landed him in time out with a stern talking to, my heart was melted when upon cleaning the room I had found a spot where he, himself, had tried to begin cleaning his mess.

 

All I can determine from my co-worker's indignant response is that really, deep down, somewhere, she's envious of the family I have, the memories we are creating, and the laughs that we share. And I'm sorry for her that she'll never experience paint, poop, or powder. But more importantly, I'm sad she'll never enjoy all the joys of motherhood.

Sunshine, Daisies, and Unicorn Farts

When I received my teaching assignment this year, I was thrilled - 11th grade English. One of my favorite reasons to teach this grade is because I get to teach my favorite novel - Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston.

If you're not familiar with the novel, it's a story of a young black woman, Janie, who spends her life trying to figure out who she is and spends her years chasing the dream of "true love." After two failed marriages and a third that ends in murder, the character returns home. My students get emotionally attached to the characters and spend the weeks in deep conversation about the themes of the book.

Today's chapter featured "Janie" being married off to a man some estimated 60 years her senior. Her grandmother arranges this marriage because she knows she's nearing death and wants her granddaughter to be well-taken care of - mostly financially. This gentleman has a home and 60 acres of land. Janie lives with him for one year, and continually "waits for love to begin." After the year is up, she says that "the dream (of marriage) is dead."

After a discussion of marriage in today's society, I asked my students the following question:

"Is marriage worth it?"

And the overwhelming, sad, and immediate response was "No."

I asked more questions. Why is it not worth it? Why do people get divorced? Why should they not get married in the first place?

The majority of students saw no purpose in marriage. They said they've seen too many divorces, too many unhappy people, and some even said that "marriage was a waste of money and time." They claimed boredom, adultery, abuse, and personality changes as reasons people don't stay together. They didn't see the purpose in the "piece of paper." They said they've become numb to the negative stigma that society used to have on divorce.

And I felt sad.

I am going to be married ten years this coming August. Has every minute been, as my husband would say, sunshine, daisies, and unicorn farts? No. Sometimes it's been just the farts.

But the truth is, I love my husband. I love our marriage.  I love our family that we have created. I love our memories. I love our story.  Our good times and our bad times have created the strong couple that we are. We've grown together; we've laughed a lot; we've changed together. Are we the same people we were 13 (gasp) years ago when we started dating? No. But I think that's a good thing. Are there things we didn't expect as we exchanged our vows? Sure. The whole "poorer, sicker, and bad times" part of the vows weren't what we looked forward to, but it was what we committed to. And we made a commitment to God to stick together through those times.

My heart breaks for these young kids who see no hope in the future. They haven't seen what good marriages can look like. So, can we blame them for not wanting to get married? I wish people would stop making the excuses of, "Well, he's/she's not the same person," or "I just fell out of love," or "We have nothing in common." Those aren't real reasons; they're sad excuses for not sticking things through. Sure the grass may be greener on the other side; it's the most green over the septic tank.

So regardless of what the world says, I love my marriage. Unicorn farts and all.

For Ebony

I know there are a lot of tough jobs out there.

I'm not pretending like I work in a field full of daisies, nor am I saying that I work in a mine field either. But for those that are on the "inside" of education, you know that being a teacher is a tough job. I have administrators and "the law" checking in on me, parents questioning me, and students demanding my knowledge, expertise, and time. But to me, those are the things that are expected. Someone recently asked me what the "most surprising thing about being a teacher" was. After some time in thought, it came to me.

Attachment.

I get emotionally attached to my kids. And yes, they're my kids.

I recently heard a teacher say about a theoretical student in her class, "Really, I don't care about you.  You're just a cog in the wheel."

Really, lady? Then why are you still teaching?

After eight years of being the classroom, I figure I have taught just over 1,000 students. And if you look at my Facebook account, almost half of my "friends" are former students. And I love that. I love that they care enough to stay in touch, and I hope they feel the same in return. I cared about them as students, and I care about them as adults. While in my classroom, my main concern is not that they learn literature or grammar, but that they learn life skills and begin to discover who they are and what their bigger purpose is in life. I just use Shakespeare as a scapegoat.

Possibly the toughest part of being a teacher is when I lose one of my kids. After eight years, I have lost four - three boys and one girl. One was killed in a car accident, one was beaten to death, and two were suicides. If I had this blog up and running in November, I would have written this then.

For two years, I taught at a local middle school. It was not by choice. The first year was the toughest; most days I hated going to work. But there was one 7th grade girl, Ebony, who was the bright spot of my day.  She was feisty, smart, talented, and stubborn. And after awhile, we grew to love each other. Every morning she came to my room to give me a hug. She gave me the utmost compliment one day. She said, "Hey, Ms. L. You gangsta!" Once I left the school, we became friends on Facebook. I ran into her this summer in the mall. She was still smiling.

At the end of this past October, I heard a news story that a local high school student was found hanging in the school bathroom in a suicide attempt. Shortly there after, I received a text message from a colleague telling me that it was Ebony.

My world stopped. Even now, months later, I fight back the tears. I waited by my phone, my email, and the local news channels to hear updates. "Fighting for her life," were the words we hung onto for days. Finally, the first days of November rolled around, and Ebony's family took her off life support. They had kept her alive a few extra days to make sure family could say good-bye, and that her organs could be harvested. I cried. A lot. I went to her funeral. I prayed. I still don't understand. No one does.

So when someone says that being a teacher is "easy," or that we teach for "three reasons: June, July, & August," I want to tell them that I'd give it all up, if I didn't have to lose one more kid.

They're not the cog in my the wheel. They're the wheel.

Where's My Cape?

Ever since I was a little girl, I've put an enormous amount of pressure on myself to succeed. To be the best. To not let anyone down.

 

I must have only been seven or eight years old, but I would ask my mom and dad at the end of the day, "Was I a good girl today?" And their consistent answer of, "Yes," reinforced my good behavior. I distinctly remember one time after having company asking my parents that nightly question. For whatever reason it was, I hadn't been my angelic-self that day, and my parents' response devastated me: "No, you were not a good girl today."

 

In high school, I took honors, dual enrollment, and AP courses. I joined numerous clubs. I was the editor of my school's newspaper. I graduated with a 4.2 GPA. I looked really good on paper.

 

My first taste of being "Superwoman."

 

College rolled around and kicked me straight in the tail. My first semester yielded me less than a 3.0, and I was crushed. I had let "everyone" down. Who was "everyone?" I don't know. But the president of the "everyone" club was me. The next semester I swore my grades would improve, and they did. I rarely got anything less than an A - studying for long hours, being a constant visitor to the university's library, and finding study groups at every corner. The semester before graduation I had a cumulative GPA of 3.8. It wasn't good enough. I wanted to retake my few bombed classes to raise my GPA. Even after receiving word that I was selected to "Graduate with Distinction." it wasn't enough. What stopped me? Health problems that were triggered by stress and unnecessary pressures. So, I graduated with my "measly" 3.8, got a job within two weeks of graduation, and never looked back.

 

Instead, I looked forward - to my Master's program - where my main goal was to graduate with a 4.0. And I did. I walked across the stage, six months pregnant. Swollen ankles and all.

 

Superwoman.

 

So, now I'm the busiest I've ever been. Both my husband and I work full time jobs (and sometimes more than full time), we have two energetic sons, I'm five and a half months pregnant, and all the while trying to hold it all together. I hate when stay-at-home moms say, "Oh, well, at least you get to get out of the house and work." Well, yes, I do, and I wouldn't have it any other way. But because I'm a teacher, I'm out of the house by 6:30am, dressed up and pretending to be sufficiently rested. I'm at work by 7am each day where I get to teach 150 uninterested, unimpressed high-schoolers the importance of grammar and American Literature. Yes, I get home early, but that just leaves me with the other half of my waking hours with my own kids. Somehow, dinner must be made, carpets vacuumed, laundry washed and folded, groceries shopped, birthday parties planned, and I'm expected to do it all with a smile on my face.

 

Superwoman.

 

So where does that leave me at the end of a day?

 

Still putting that childhood pressure on myself.

 

Some things I hear in my head as I roll over at night:

- The kitchen's still a mess. There must be some law about sanitary cooking conditions.

- I didn't take anything out for tomorrow evening's dinner. What will we eat? We'll surely starve. And a restaurant is out of the question - it shows my weakness of not cooking gourmet meals.

- The boys didn't get their baths tonight. Will mold start to grow in their toes overnight?

- The boys didn't brush their teeth tonight (gasp). CPS will surely fine me for poor dental hygiene.

- B's birthday is in seven days and I haven't bought matching streamers and plates and balloons yet. He will be emotionally scarred and it will be a conversation he someday has with his psychiatrist.

- We're having company tomorrow; I better vacuum when I get home from work. Can't let people think we live in a pig sty.

- Are all my lesson plans done for school? What fascinating bit of knowledge will my kids depart with tomorrow? What if an administrator comes in and I look incompetent?

And the list goes on...

 

And I wonder why I can't sleep at night.

 

If I'm supposed to be Superwoman, WHERE'S MY CAPE?

 

I have to start learning, even at the age of 30, that perfection isn't necessary, and it's not even possible. If something's not clean, it's okay. If a miss a night of brushing teeth, the boys will survive. And if we have a weekly pizza night, at least no one goes to bed hungry. My success as a wife, mother, daughter, daughter-in-law, teacher, etc., aren't judged by these things. The Bible tells us that we are created in God's image. Well, if He's okay with crumby carpet and Chick-Fil-A dinners, then so am I.

 

But if I can't have a cape, then at least let me buy a pair of new shoes.

Dinner... a novel idea

Now, I preface this post by saying that I am writing from the experience of being a teacher, not a parent of a teenager. But I have nearly 10 years of experience in the classroom working with kids aged 12-18. I think that has awarded me some authority on the subject.

Very often I will sit and watch my students. Not in a creepy way, but in a curious, pensive way. They will be working quietly at their desks on a given assignment (or trying to sneak their texting underneath the desks, not so subtly). And I just sit and wonder, "What's really going on with that kid?"

Some students are very forthcoming about their lives, friends, activities, etc.- they are open books, waiting, begging, and pleading to be read. Others are closed books, never to be cracked open. They are reminiscent of those antique books, covered in dust, adorning someone's glass bookcase. To me, both are incredibly interesting.

What I have learned over the years is this: open or closed, teenagers have remarkable stories to tell.

Some are happy, fun, adventurous and encouraging stories.

Others are sad, frustrating, depressing, and unbelievable.

What I struggle with the most is how to help those with the latter.  What can I, one teacher, who only sees the kid for 47 minutes a day, actually do to help?

While 47 minutes a day  may not seem like much, it can be more time than some students spend with their own parents. I recently asked my 11th graders how many ate dinner with their families on a regular basis. I would estimate that less than a third raised their hands. And I can promise that one third are the ones who are better students academically, socially, and emotionally.

Most students said they "fend for themselves," finding whatever it is to heat up in the microwave. Some make dinner and take it directly to their rooms to eat while the rest of the family members are delegated to other rooms in the house. Other students are home all night by themselves because parents have to work.

Now, before I get attacked that "well, some parents have to work and can't be home for dinner" - relax. I understand. I'm not talking about those situations.

I'm talking to those parents who are home and still allow the family to eat in separate rooms. Dare I say that you should be ashamed of yourselves? Research has shown that families who eat dinner together are stronger families, with stronger marriages, and have stronger kids. What's so wrong with sitting around the table, eating (a home-cooked or ordered-pizza) dinner and talking with your kids?

Ask them a series of questions that cannot be answered with just a "yes" or "no."

"How was your day?" doesn't work.


"Tell me about the best thing in your day," does work.


Years ago I gave my students an assignment. It was a list of ten questions that they had to ask a parent (or grandparent, guardian, etc.). The catch was that they had to do it over mealtime. It could be a weekend or weekday breakfast, lunch, or dinner. But they had to sit down, have a meal, and discuss the questions. The students were to ask the adults things about their childhood, their first jobs, the first time they fell in love, their biggest regrets, and their greatest dreams.


I wasn't as shocked at the answers as I was the comments by the students. One boy came to me and said, "I was only able to go to McDonald's with my mom, but we were there for over an hour. I can't believe all I learned about her." His time with his mother was not unique. One after another the students shared that it wasn't so much what was discussed, but the time spent together.


Could you imagine if you sat down every night of the week and actually talked to your kids?

Can you afford not to?

Laying Mulch & Hearing God

Almost four years ago, I got pregnant with Aaron.

Shortly after that, but before we knew he was a "he," we decided that we needed to re-mulch our front yard. It was a big task, and since I was pregnant, I wasn't as much help as I normally would have been. We enlisted the help of a former, male student. (Incidentally, he and his family have since become like family to us.) While watching him and Nathan work in the yard (Let me interject here that I made a great supervisor), I had the thought: "I wouldn't mind having a boy someday. You know, to lift heavy things. Mow lawns. Paint rooms." And while my brain was adjusting to the idea of having a boy in addition to the little girl I had always dreamed of, a calm came over me.

Now yes, a lot of people say they have "heard the voice of God." I'm not sure I've ever had that moment. I'm not really sure what God sounds like. Maybe Morgan Freeman?  Charlton Heston? Kermit the Frog? I dunno.

But at that moment, I felt a physical calm, and heard something say, "You're going to have a house full of boys someday. And it's good."

A few weeks later in June of 2008, we were told that our first born would be a boy.

Two years later in October 2010, we were told that our second baby would be a boy.

And today, January 19, 2012 we learned that our unexpected blessing is yet one more boy.

And it's good.
    

Baseball

I don’t know much about sports.

Actually, I don’t know a lot about sports.

 I’m a Yankees’ fan. I’m from New York – shouldn’t I be a Yankees’ fan? I know where they play. I know the colors of their uniforms. Heck, I even know some of the players’ names. If they’re playing a game, and there’s nothing else on TV, I’ll watch the game.  

Okay, so maybe I’m not a “real” fan, but I know a little about the sport. I know there are bases, pitchers, hitters, and catchers. I get the premise of the game – throw a ball, hit a ball, run fast, try not to get out, repeat.  I know they have “hand signals” to tell each other what to do.  

I know that the hitter has a plan. He expects the pitcher to throw him the ball, he’ll hit it, and then he’ll run to first. The other guys on the bases and in the outfield are operating under the same assumption. They know how this will go – who is going to catch it, who will throw it, who it’s safe to get out, who they should let run, and what to expect when it’s hit out of the park.

But sometimes, there’s a curveball. 

The team had a plan, but then the pitcher threw the curveball. Then in seconds’ time, the plan must be rethought, revised, and executed. 

And that’s life.

We have a plan for our lives. We know how it’s supposed to look.  We know what each day should look like. We know where we’ll go to school, what career we’ll have, where we’ll live, who we’ll marry, how many kids we’ll have, what kind of car we drive, and where we’ll take vacations. 

We’re the hitter.

But God’s the pitcher.

And sometimes, he throws us curveballs, just to remind us that we’re not in control of the game. 

I knew where I wanted to go to college, so I became a UCF Knight. I knew who I wanted to marry, so when Nathan asked, I said yes. I knew I wanted to be a teacher, and I now have the keys to my classroom, room 113. I knew I never wanted to leave Sarasota, so we bought a house here. I knew I wanted two children, so…

God threw us a curveball. Despite best efforts to prevent another pregnancy, to keep our family an even-numbered four people, God had other plans. Baby Loomis number three is due in June. 

Talk about a game-changer. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, two strikes, bases loaded. I’m at bat, knowing just what I want to do. Suddenly, the coach comes in and changes the whole game. I only wanted two children; it’s all I ever imagined. But that was my decision. I never asked God what His will was. I was just coaching the game myself.

We found out about the pregnancy during the middle of October 2011. There weren’t words to express the shock that we felt. I had never had more emotions in a week’s time than I did then. Anger. Frustration. Sadness. Anxiety. Fear. Guilt. I cried for a week.  I even called in “sick” to work that week. The questions trampled my head as I rolled over at night. How did we let this happen? How would we raise three children? What were people going to think? Can we afford a third? How will my body handle another pregnancy? How will Aaron feel? What about Ben – he’ll still be so young. Will I possibly have enough love in my heart for another baby?

After collecting myself, I did as I imagined a baseball player would do when they have been thrown a curveball. I took a deep breath and realized the game was not in my hands.  I know I’m not alone. I have a whole team on the field, ready to help. And when we get weary, there’s more in the dugout. And I have friends in the stands, cheering me on, no matter how badly I play this game called life.

It’s been an emotional ride so far. As the days go by, the negative emotions fade and the positive ones rise. I have begun to realize that this baby was in God’s plans all along. This isn’t news to him. Jeremiah I:5 says, “For I knew you before I knit you in your mother’s womb. I have holy plans for you.” 

Logistics. We’ll need a new car. Ours physically can’t fit three car seats (gasp) in the back seat.  We’ll need to redesign the guest room as a new baby’s room. And somewhere down the line, we’ll need a new kitchen table, since the current one only seats four people. But Thanksgiving dinners will be that much richer, Christmas photo cards will feature three smiling faces rather than two, and we’ll have to hide more Easter eggs come spring time. 

God saw me as a mom of three. I guess I need to start seeing myself that way, too.

So, here I am at bat. I was expecting a fast ball. But God threw a curve. I’m going to swing, hit the ball, and start running. It doesn’t matter what happens at each base along the way - as long as I land at home.

First post!

So, this is my first post.

I have a small blog on my classroom website, but I'm sure no one has ever read it. That would require my students caring enough to 1) write down the class website, 2) actually type in the URL, and 3) find the link on  my page and read what was there. I'm not holding my breath.

The purpose of this blog, you ask?

I've always loved to write. But I've never had an audience or an outlet. So, here's my chance to enter the 21st Century and begin to write.  The stories of my day tend to amuse, entertain, or inspire others - or at least give you something to distract you from the vacuuming or laundry. So here you can read updates on what it's like to be a pregnant mom with two kids and a high school English teacher - all the while trying to maintain my sanity.

So, you'll get my two cents. Although, in this economy, it may not be worth that much.