In Our Absence

For Sunday, September 25, 2011

When I am under the weather I get awfully impatient. I come by this quite naturally as I well remember the grumblings of my Dad when he was sick with a cold and the frustration of my Mom when she’d find herself getting sleepy in the middle of the day. “Nap? The only time I ever nap is when I’m ill. I have too much to do”. My brothers and sister all seem to share the same intolerance for being sick too.

Despite this, we are all quick to sympathize with another’s illness. We dispense advice quickly such as “Listen to your body”, or “Drink lots of fluids and get your rest”. We push others to “Know your limits” and to “Take care of yourself so you can take care of others”. Why is it then that we push ourselves to recover quickly and grow irritable when we lack the energy to do our normal routine when we are in need of rest ourselves?

This morning, after having spent most of Saturday in bed, I missed Sunday mass and stayed home to sleep. My husband and children went off to church, however, and upon waking up I went downstairs and saw that the three of them had the kitchen clean, laundry done and folded, garage organized, garbage taken out, and the house, all in all, looking pretty decent. It wasn’t anything surprising really, for I have long known how thoughtful my family is, but I found myself smiling and getting teary just the same.

It’s important that we take care of ourselves when we are under the weather and that we, indeed, listen to our bodies and know our limits. It’s the surest way to recovering quickly so we can be there for our loved ones. But it is certainly a blessing when our loved ones come through and remind us that it’s okay to stop and rest, that they will be happy to keep the world running in our absence.

Afraid to Blink

For Saturday, September 24, 2011

With the new school year underway, I woke up this morning and realized I’d caught my first cold of the season. I’d hoped to survive the first month of school without catching any of my students’ germs but that wasn’t the case. I spent most of the day in bed, sneezing and sleeping. I was miserable. But the worst of it was how very aware I was of the hours wasted. I thought of the work I could have been doing around the house to make up for the hectic workweek and of the correcting I had hoped to get completed. I thought of Paul’s soccer game and I realized I’d have to skip Emma’s volleyball game too. Because I was sleeping, I even missed a phone call from Sydney.

I looked over at my almost 6 month old puppy and took in all 37 pounds of her, 30 pounds heavier than when we came home with her at 8 weeks of age back in June. I thought of the summer months we’d had together and what a blur that time seemed to be now. I thought back on the past year, a difficult one in many ways, and took an extra moment to look at my face for the wear and tear that surely must be there. With my summer tan fading, there will be little to distract others from seeing the new wrinkles I’m wearing these days.

For years I have heard my parents say that the older one gets, the faster time seems to fly. Today before Sydney sent me a note about the start of her sophomore year in college and after Emma excitedly returned from her first college fair, Paul showed me a text from a friend inviting him to a bonfire after their first sixth grade dance next Friday. “A dance? For 6th graders? Do you really want to go?” I asked him. “Yes Mom. I do”, he responded.

I hate to say it, but my parents were right. Now that I’m older, time is moving so quickly. Too quickly. It’s downright scary. I can’t afford any more time spent nursing a stupid cold. How can I nap? I’m afraid if I even blink, I’m going to miss so much.

In the Wee Small Hours

For Friday, September 23, 2011

In the wee small hours of the morning
While the whole wide world is fast asleep
You lie awake and think about the boy
And never ever think of counting sheep

When your lonely heart has learned its lesson
You'd be his if only he'd call
In the wee small hours of the morning
That's the time you miss him most of all

Although this Frank Sinatra song is tough to compete with, it is Carly Simon’s voice that I first heard singing these lyrics. Her album, My Romance, is one of my favorites, in fact. Whenever I am up late and the house is so still, these lyrics come to me.

The boy...a lonely heart...learning its lesson...the wee small hours of the morning...the time you miss him most of all.

Oh, hold the phone. Spread no rumors. There isn’t a certain someone I pine for. But yes, in those quiet moments that come every so often, there is someone I think of, someone I wonder about... hoping he’s doing okay, thinking of the last few times we saw one another and talked. He was someone who, years back, got under my skin in a complicated way. Of all the people in my life, he is one of a select few who truly challenged me. I miss him.

It’s amazing to me how every now and then, a person comes into my life, making an unbelievably intense impression, only to depart, never to be seen or heard from again. I think on this at times, wondering what it is about my life or my personality that has me experience this. I think it may be that, in life, most of the time people are so wound up in their own selves, in their own daily lives, that we just don’t stop, look, and listen to other people. Not the way we should or could anyhow. We don’t get out of our own heads long enough to stare deeply into another’s eyes, to see who is there. This is how he challenged me. He caught me off guard because he not only took time to see me, the real me, he took time to find ways to have ME see ME.

I learned so much from our friendship. And in the wee small hours of the morning, while the whole wide world is fast asleep, I lie awake and think about the man. And my heart knows it has learned its lesson. I should have had more courage to stare back into his eyes, to get under his skin, to have challenged him.

Then again, maybe I did that. Maybe that’s why he’s no longer here.

Hey you. Thanks...for everything. I still miss you.

Forever in High School

For Thursday, September 22, 2011

Whether I am at home or at work, most of my days are spent in the midst of teenagers. Sure, there are some behaviors or personalities that are challenging, but most of the young people I work with have good hearts and life affirming honesty. They are the people with whom I choose to spend my days. I witness candor and energy in my children and my students that usually rubs off on me. Most of the time, I am pretty sure that being constantly surrounded by teens keeps me young. Do you realize that being away from a high school setting for only the four years I was in college back in the late 1980s, I’ve truly never left high school?

I realize that with the exception of those of us who work in a high school setting, the idea of “never leaving high school” is one that is quite horrific perhaps to most people. I even heard a particular anchor on the news the other day say that no amount of money in the world could ever make her return to high school ever again. I have witnessed enough unhappiness in teens to understand where these folks are coming from. People can be quick to say that those four years in secondary school were not the best years of their lives, that those years were really tough to endure. I share with my students who struggle that life after high school offers them so many options and a freedom they have yet to taste. I ask them to "hold on" when they want to lose themselves in despair, or when they tell me they never want to go to college. I tell them what they need to hear, that after graduation they will find the world beyond high school.

But my own high school years were great fun. I won’t be joining the ranks of those who hold onto their high school “glory days”, who think that life after high school never measured up to those years spent in that setting, who forever live in the past of days gone by, but I do think that part of the reason I enjoy teaching high school is because I was pretty happy, safe, and content in my own high school years. The years were not perfect; I had my ups and downs; but generally, yes, I had a good time.

In July when I went to my 25th class reunion I had the chance to spend time with some of the people who made up my world from the age of 14 to 18. However, with the exception of one of my dearest friends, Ann Marie “Ree”, I strangely did not hang out with the people I was closest to back then. There were several folks from “my old crowd”, but the night went by so quickly that I didn’t feel I had enough time to catch up with them. And a few of my best friends did not attend the reunion and I’m not sure why. Still, I treasured the time spent with several other classmates. The beauty and joy of dinner time spent with Kelly, Renee, Amy, and Ree made the evening so worth it; how good it was to hear of their families and life milestones. Later when I got up my nerve to go talk with Steve and his wife Debbie, I was reminded of how important it is that we take risks to reconnect with people who share our special love of our hometown. It seems that each reunion I attend, I have a special unexpected reunion with a particular classmate. This past July, the time I spent talking casually with Steve and Debbie was the highlight of my night. The simplicity of talking about our kids and their school years, a few moments spent reliving memories of Steve scaring me with drives down Dead Man’s Curve, and Deb’s mention of watching over my Dad when she now sees him in town touched me the most.

Back in my classroom, I see teens living their high school experience each day. I envision them older, at their own 25th class reunion someday. I think of the men and women they will grow to be and I often consider the possibilities for their own memories of high school. I do worry for some who struggle with the social scene and I try to tell them that even though they are young, I can see in them the beautiful amazing adults they are going to become.

Sure, being surrounded by teens can easily remind me that it has been more than a couple of decades since I was their age. I am growing older. But in many respects, I’ve never left high school. And as weird as it may sound to some folks, I am more than okay with that.

Of Mice and Men

Yesterday afternoon, when Paul and Emma were each working on homework at the dining room table, I came into the room and heard what sounded like footsteps on the second floor. Knowing only the three of us were at home, I stopped in my tracks and asked, “Who is upstairs?!” Our first thought was that it was our puppy. But then Paul spotted Ziva outside. “Could it be Boo?” I wondered. Our cat, Boo, at 17 pounds could easily have made the noise jumping off a bureau or bed, but still, we were not certain of the source of the noise.

Feeling pretty confident however that it was nothing to worry about, I slipped into what is normal play between me and the kids.

“Go look Emma”.

“Mom, no. I am doing my math”.

“Paul, you go look”.

“Mom!”

Paul is used to me putting him up to what I call “Man of the House” tasks. If his Dad isn’t home, he’s the “Man of the House” after all, and with that title comes the distinct responsibilities of putting spiders outside, disposing of the occasional dead mouse that Boo has caught, or any other chore that, quite honestly, is a little “icky” for us girls to do. To his credit, he’s a good sport, and I’d even go so far as to say he is a bit proud to help us damsels in distress. He is a gentleman.

Of course, he is only eleven years old. I still have to nag him to do his daily chores. He and Emma are expected to do several household tasks throughout the week. Emptying the cat box, taking out the garbage, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, laundry, making supper, or reorganizing a shelf or drawer are some of those chores of maintenance and of course, doing the daily dishes is also necessary. That seems to be the one chore that Paul dislikes the most. He’s content with emptying the dishwasher but ask him to load it up and to do a few dishes by hand and suddenly he’s sighing BIG sighs and scrunching up his face in disgust. He picks up dirty utensils like they contain poison and if you’re not watching him closely, he’ll try to duck out of the room before having to touch the pot that has spaghetti sauce on the side.

Ask him to clean up a half-eaten mouse and he’s proud to protect the ladies of the house. Ask him to go seek out what has made a noise upstairs and he’ll bravely head towards danger. With tasks like these he becomes a noble “Man of the House”. However, ask him to load the dishwasher and well, you see my little boy, That’s okay though. Last week he learned how to do laundry and laughed when I told him it was okay to get a little of the detergent on his hands. After all, it’s soap. I figure I have a little more time to help him become a full fledged “Man of the House”, overcoming his nausea when getting his hands dirty.

On a Crowded Couch

Okay, I admit. I am a television junkie. I made the mistake of assuming the same of my teenage students but years back, the masses told me that no, they have better things to do with their time, namely to communicate with others on social media sites or to play games on their computers. I do hear of more and more teens, however, who are watching TV shows but most are finding series on Hulu or Netflix. According to one research study, "One in six families now owns five televisions, and two thirds have three sets or more", yet it's suggested that individual family members are watching TV in separate rooms of a single house (Parentdish.com). Gone are the days apparently when families all gather together in front of a TV set at a designated time to watch shows together each weekday night, or so I am led to believe. Thinking of how enjoyable I find TV time with my family, I sure hope I am wrong about that.

With the invention of the DVR, I do see my children opting to tape their favorite shows to watch at a later date when they can fast-forward through the annoying commercials and view a 60 minute show in less than 40 minutes. I do this too at times, but to me there is nothing more relaxing at the end of the day than to plop on the couch with my fleece blanket and to enjoy the camaraderie of my family while we see what has happened to Leonard and Sheldon, or as we laugh over the hilarious predicaments Gloria or Phil have gotten themselves into. In fact when it came time to name our new puppy, the characters from one of our family’s favorite television shows (NCIS) came to mind: Jethro Gibbs, Tony, Abby, Ducky, McGee, and Ziva. (Our furry baby Ziva will get to meet Ziva the NCIS agent tonight... if she keeps her eyes open on the TV while she snuggles up against me).

The level of enjoyment watching TV is raised when others are laughing or gasping together. I do admit that I am sometimes hushed when I am caught talking back to the TV or when I tell characters what to do, but overall, I think my family would agree with me that our TV time is family bonding time. Some of us have our own shows that we cannot watch without another. Eric and Paul have "Chuck" for example. We all watch "Survivor" and "Amazing Race". Emma and I try to catch "How I Met Your Mother" together so we can laugh and express our love for Barney, and we all watch the aforementioned NCIS. Before the end of the series LOST, I'd also go to school each week where several of us watching the show would take time to share our reactions to the latest episode. Are we all wasting our time in front of what I grew up hearing others call "The Boob Tube"?! Maybe, but I doubt it. It's not as important the activity we're doing together, rather it's the time we're taking to be with one another.

So this week, being Fall premiere week, I am returning home each evening happy to have a few hours with my favorite people watching favorite characters. No matter how hectic my days are from 7am-7pm, they end with comedy or a touching drama on TV and with relaxing comfort of family and pets on a crowded couch.

The Kick I Needed

For Monday, September 19, 2011

As my workday was coming to a close I got thinking of heading home and what I had next to do. There was the trip to the post office I needed to make and the video I had to find before Thursday’s class. Emma would need a ride to her volleyball game and luckily, I knew I had a pot roast in the crock pot. However, there was one item on my “To DO” list that had me nervous. At 6:00pm, I would be starting my first cardio-kickboxing class.

I’d signed up for the class a month ago when, after receiving the paper catalogue of classes being offered through the town’s adult education program, I’d spotted the course which would be held for six weeks at a nearby school. I thought of how I’d lost some weight since July and how I’d enjoyed walking, kayaking, and swimming in the summer months, but how with school starting back up, I was bound to be less motivated or simply crunched for time at the end of the day. I wanted to continue on my “Get Fit” journey. So before I could talk myself out of it, I signed up and paid for the course.

Yet, over this past weekend, knowing the first class date was here, I could feel the anxiety growing. I was still excited for the course and knew it was a good idea for me to take it, but the usual worries I have over such things began surfacing. Would I be the clumsiest woman there? Would I be able to get through the 60 minute class? Would I be embarrassed? Yikes. What had I gone and done?!

I arrived home with two hours to spare before the class. I ate an early dinner, whined about being overwhelmed, and admitted to my panic to friends online. They calmed me down and Deanna’s mention of kickboxing hottie, actor John Cusack, made me smile. I found my yoga capris and a tee shirt and put on my sneakers so as to mentally prepare. I grabbed a water bottle and headed out the door.

In the parking lot I met a young woman who was also new to the town’s adult ed offerings. She and I quickly found the gym and met our instructor. Denise said there would be a total of seven in the class. A few other young women trickled in. I was now surrounded by four young women in their 20s, all rather slender, two of whom I’d later describe to my husband as “Skinny Minnies”. In fact I looked at one very tall and thin young woman and had all I could do not to say to myself, “Oh come on! Go home and enjoy some dessert! Like you need to be here!” Instead, I looked at these four young woman and simply sighed to myself, “Oh crap”.

Luckily for me, two other women closer to my age did show up. And when introductions were given and the warm ups began, I realized I was by no means the least coordinated or conditioned woman there. I learned the four punch moves and the four kicks rather quickly and kept up with my instructor and the two Skinny Minnies. By 6:20pm I was feeling pretty good about myself.

The instructor smiled and supported us all. Smiling even when I am in pain is a regular habit of mine, so I continued to smile back at her and to give her thumbs up when she occasionally asked for the sign that we were all doing okay. We took a few water breaks and she got the music going and we began doing different routines. She offered three or four different levels of modifications for the routines and although my kicks were lower and my jumps were tame in comparison to the tall legged Amazon whose slice of cake I wanted to steal, I did pretty well to keep up with everyone for the duration of the class.

In the final 15 minutes, Denise had us do core work. This began with a walk and some stretches of our arms and shoulders. Then we each grabbed a mat and she taught us the proper way to do crunches. I rested on my mat and looked up at the ceiling lights and thought, “I’m almost through this class. I did it!” More core work exercises followed with the plank and some stretches and head/neck rolls. And then we were done.

We gathered up our water bottles and car keys and headed out of the gym. I thanked Denise and she smiled and reassured me, “It will get easier”. I chuckled wondering if she knew somehow how nervous I’d been to come tonight. But as if to reassure her that I would be back next week I replied, “Oh, I know it will”. I drove home with the windows open on what was a brisk night and I was quick to pop a few ibuprofen when I came in the door.

But I was smiling. I had survived the first class. And I will go back for more.