The sweetest gift

I have had the pleasure of working with some super stars this week to get them ready for their STAAR re-takes in a week and a half. This one boy just came to us a few weeks ago, and he and his Mom are on the run and staying at the women's crisis shelter in town. He came to me today with a very old, tattered book and told me he had found it at a house he was staying at once before they tore it down. He told me he gives his favorite teachers a page from it and wanted me to have one. Knowing his tough, tough home life I was thrilled. He delicately tore out a page and signed it and gave it to me. As he handed it over, he said the whole book teaches you how to speak and read Chinese. I am the fortunate one... I can now ask any native speaker if they are constipated. AND offer them a laxative. It was especially extra special because this kiddo doesn't read well enough to even fathom give me a page with the word constipated on it... much less know what aperient means. All week he's been wanting me to call him Eddie Murphy. You can bet I have. Has it made a difference? I am sure of it. Just sitting here, I think about all the other misfits I am expected to get to pass a test in 8 school days.... One whose father shot himself playing Russian roulette in front of him when he was a baby.... one who has a lengthy note on file about how his father has relinquished all parental rights and how he is not allowed to step foot in the building, yet this child is named after him.... One whose mother and 2 sisters were killed in a car accident 3 years ago, leaving her and her dad. One whose grandmother just died in Mexico, so he won't get to even take the second try of the test.... One who lives with an uncle, and isn't allowed to see his mom. One who has been taken away from mom because her mother's boyfriend molested her-- and mom didn't try to stop it. It cuts my heart up like a knife. The worst part? That's only just a few. These babies come in and out of my room and the whole world is on their shoulders. I just try to at least give them a little bit of hope. 

Tis nothing but a shitty first draft.

This caught my attention today.... my bff 4/E tagged me in this diddy she found on Facebook. It comes from the glorious Anne Lamot. Her book Bird by Bird is amazing... the first chapter, "Shitty First Drafts" makes the even novice writer hopeful they will be Pulitzer material someday. After all... that's where we all start. She says, in all her brilliance:

"Anne Lamott

I had a great idea for a new book, although come to think of it, maybe it is just a Facebook post. But it would be called Pre First Draft, and address the way we suit up and show up to be writers, artists, and general tribal-two-stomp creative types.

I think it would begin with an admonition: if you used to love writing, painting, dancing, singing, whatever, but you stopped doing it when you had kids or began a strenuous career, then you have to ask yourself if you are okay about not doing it anymore.

If you always dreamed of writing a novel or a memoir, and you used to love to write, and were pretty good at it, will it break your heart if it turns out you never got around to it? If you wake up one day at eighty, will you feel nonchalant that something always took precedence over a daily commitment to discovering your creative spirit?

If not--if this very thought fills you with regret--then what are you waiting for?

Back in the days when I had writing students, they used to spend half their time explaining to me why it was too hard to get around to writing every day, but how once this or that happens--they retired, or their last kid moved out--they could get to work.

I use to say very nicely, "That's very nice; but it's a total crock. There will never be a good time to write. It will never be easier. If you won't find an hour a day now, you won't find it then."

It's the same belief as thinking that once you lose weight, you'll begin to feel good about yourself. No, you won't. If you're not okay with yourself at 185 pounds, you're not going to be okay at 140. It's an inside job.

How do you begin? The answer is simple: you decide to. Then you push back your sleeves and start writing--I.e., scribbling words down on paper, or typing at a computer. And it will be completely awful. It will be unreadable shit! You won't have a clue how it account to anything, ever. And to that, I say, Welcome. That's what it's like to be a writer. But you just do it anyway. At my church, we sing a gospel song called, "Hallelujah anyway." Everything's a mess, and you're going down the tubes financially, and gaining weight? Well, Hallelujah anyway.

So you decide to get back to work creatively, and you write up some thoughts or passages or memories or scenes. Then what? Then you write some more. Everywhere you go, you carry a pen, and take notes--ideas will start to come to you. You'll see and overhear and remember things that you want to include in this mysterious quilt you're putting together, so you jot them down. Imagine a rag-bag guy who lives inside you, who collects images, descriptions, holy moments, snippets of funny conversation, for you to use in your writing--but he doesn't have any hands, and needs you to help him amass the rags with which you can make squares for the quilt.

That's all you have to do today: pay attention--being a writer is about paying attention. Stop hitting the snooze button. Carry a pen with you everywhere, or else God will give me all these insights and images that were supposed to go to you. Hang up a shingle on the inside of you: now open for business. Wow! You won't have to wake up at 70, aching with regret that you threw your creative essence under the bus. And if you already are seventy, then you won't have to wake up at eighty, confused and in despair about how you let your gift slip away. Because you will have been writing--or dancing again, or practicing recorder--every single glorious, livelong, weird, amazing day."

 so here I am... 3 months later. I have tons of drafts of posts lined up in this thing... but for a reason or another they didn't get posted. I am making my spring annual trip to "the bad place". What that means for those that have never been there is that I would rather just hole up in a cave in my pajamas and eat Golden Chick rolls and pepsi until I vomit-- than have to deal with real life. It is kind of a depression that hits me straight in the lady balls year after year after a culmination of school stress and.... well, real life. Imagine if 400 channels were constantly playing in your head all at one time, and your remote was broken so you couldn't mute any of them. Sucks huh? Hoping it will all go away soon-- just in time for summer. Well, until that roll and Pepsi shipment comes with my cashmere jammies and cave reservation, i'll keep truckin.

I, do solemnly swear, that I am up to no good...

Because this girl has clean dishes... day 2. See the blue glow on the dishwasher? It is in full washage mode. Oh, you see dishes on the counter?..... those just got HANDWASHED, sucka. Done and done.

I'm feeling a lot guilty because Baby J and I did not appear at the home game tonight to support Daddy.... but I needed to take a brain dump after today. Yesterday was a long day.... today was a long day.... and tomorrow I am going to be home late because I am catching up something serious with dear friends. You gotta take care of Momma in order for Momma to take care of you.

Oh, and new girl.... I think we are gonna get along just fine.

JFTB, out.

... and I shall call you.... Mini-me. (I hope.)

My principal must think I hung the stars. (Ok, let's be honest.... I helped. Ok... maybe I am reaching here. I swear I am not full of myself, I just have confident humor. I am really a humbled person. I swear, cross my heart.) I got to be on the interview panel for our new Math interventionist that starts TOMORROW. I was pretty broken hearted when the predecessor told me she was breaking up with me to interview for the PE teacher spot that opened up when the previous one retired at semester. She ended up getting it and tried gently to break up with me, but let me know we would still do lunch sometimes... I don't do well with breakups like that... Just ask my bff.

The first girl we interview comes in... with a hair cut, just like I used to adore (before I decided driving an hour to my favorite hair lady and paying $50 was overratted... and getting my hair cut period was overrated... ok, I just want to grow it out because it is flipping cold. Watch out for March. I'll get pissed and cut it again.) and wearing a cute outfit. She acts like she straight up owns the place (love) and instantly I have a teacher crush on her. I am sure she said a lot of great things in her interview and the questions, but all I heard was.... blah blah, teach writing at ACC... blah blah, teach vocabulary... blah blah Capturing Kids Hearts, blah blah.... for the kids... blah blah... language... blah blah connect with ESL kiddos... blah blah... background in language... blah blah... I rock.

Candidates dos y tres were great too. I am sure they were... but there was something about this girl that I just digged. Turns out, we hired her fo real... and her name is also my bff's street. WEIRD!? I just put that together. I hope she is ready, because I am going to latch on to her like stink on dooky. I really think we are going to SUPER get along. She is weird like I am, loves kids, jives the same way I do on building relationships with them, and sees the importance of language and vocab development. Girlfriend is smart.

That aside, I take what my bff wrote about a 21 day challenge as a throw-down... simply because I suck and am a quitter. If it weren't for my gallbladder taking a dump, I wouldn't have lost the 7 pounds I have lost.... I eat what I want, and my body in very panicked terms, tells me it doesn't want it in. Good system. Unless you can't find a bathroom.... different story.

She is going to blog about her projects every day. I have projects too... like, ACTUALLY do the dishes. ACTUALLY put away the laundry. Feed my child something besides frozen chicken nuggets, fish sticks or pb&j or pop tarts (In writing it really makes me sound like I suck ass as a mom...). So. Here we go. After I type this little ditty I am hitting up the dishwasher. I have both sides of the sink overflowing with dishes. I swear they were all clean yesterday.... I may just start there. ACTUALLY do the dishes for 3 weeks straight. If I have to blog about it, I may as well be about it, eh?

I can do this.

Ain't no one takes care of ya like yer Ma. True dat.

My mother is the MOST amazing and selfless person on the planet. (... and in this statement I also include my insanely awesome father and baby sister and younger sister as well.) Ok. scratch that... I think my family is the most selfless insanely awesome group of people on the planet. Let's rewind to the night of October 31. I wake up at 1:30 in the morning to the worst pain I have ever felt. No, i'm not lying. I've been in labor... i've been through childbirth. This straight up sucked. It didn't take more than about 20 minutes to confirm with my darling husband that it was time to go to the ER. We live in a small town, and the options are skim--skim--skim--skim for doctors. I mean, not even take a sick skunk I find on the side of the road to most of these doctors. This ER though, hadn't done us wrong in the past. We made an excursion in August when Daddy J almost chopped his thumb off in a Tim Taylor garage accident. True story.

They give me some pain meds, some weird tummy concoction my pharmacist sister calls "magic mouthwash" and do an ultrasound. The doctor comes in and tells me my gallbladder needs to come out. Now. They take me by ambulance (which was weird) to the hospital in Austin and we get to my room. By now it's around 6 am and Momma J is ty-yurd. I catch a few zzzzzs and Daddy J walks in exhausted. He hasn't been to sleep yet. We crossed paths as I got up, and he was headed to bed. Poor guy. A few hours later in trucks Mom and Baby J. She has taken off work, driven nearly 3 hours and picked up my son from day care and cleaned house and done some grocery shopping. I find out my Dad and baby sister are rolling in the evening, and that if my younger sister had had transportation-- she would have been there stat. Blood is definitely thicker than water. My surgery was a success that afternoon and I got home the next evening. Momma left today and just like when I was on maternity leave, I was sad to see her go. She takes such good care of me. I guess that's what moms are for, right? I want to be like her when I grow up. Friday (while still at the hospital) was my parents 33rd wedding anniversary. What were they doing? Taking care of me... What were they doing 30 years ago? Taking care of me... I talked to my mom today and told her I was sorry her and Dad couldn't go out together-- she said they wouldn't have it any other way. Cue the Kleenex!

Ok... but down to the real issue. ** stop reading now if you don't want to hear about people not checking on me. But seriously... it's a big deal. Especially if you know how my old school rolls...**

So we are on day 4 almost since my surgery and JUST NOW my boss has emailed to check in on me. (Oh wait... the school secretary sent me balloons... with the school's name on them... ) I have had 2 teachers ask how I was doing. I sent an email out when I got the balloons the day I got home from the hospital and just said "thank you for the balloons, thanks for checking on my classes... p.s. if you didn't know, I had emergency surgery, be back in a week... peace." NOT. A. SINGLE. REPLY. This makes my heart hurt a little.... ok, not that I want people wallowing all over me and falling head over heels sorry I can't eat fatty foods anymore and sorry that I had surgery... but really? Have a soul. I've had at least 7 or 8 people from the school I don't even work at anymore checking in on me. We call that caring. It makes me miss the W more than ever.... I miss the family I had there.

Well, that's why I am Jenny From The Block. I don't forget where I came from...

peace and fat-free dinners.

You don't get to tell me who to give up on...

I was told today not to waste my time on a student because he is nothing but trouble. This student has been in ISS more times than not this year, and is a clone to some sweet babies I have had in the past. I am a little ruffled because I never know when he is in ISS... that hurts my heart because my M.O. is a teacher that crazy cares for her students, even those that tend to get on the last nerve of most teachers. I ALWAYS visit my kids in ISS, even if they cussed me up and down and I am the reason they are there. That's why I usually don't have to send kids there.... because I build relationships with kids. I have not had a single disrespectful moment with this sweet one, nor have I had reason to get a little Bonquiqui. Yet someone else, who happens to not like him and has trouble with him is trying to tell ME that I AM WASTING MY TIME. I don't waste time with kids.... I change them. That's what I do. You may not like that he's coming to my sanctum, love, but he is going to be coming as long as I SAY SO. If you visited you would know, in my room... we love each other, we respect each other, we work together. The End.

Child, please.

I is writer... write? right?

My bff has a delightful coffee cup I admire a whole lot. It says, "Teachers", "Walk the walk, talk the talk, chalk the chalk". There's been a lot of talk for several years, but I haven't exactly done the walk. I was talking to a co-worker at lunch the other day about being a writer. His dad was a legit writer.... AND knew Dr. Seuss. Making me feel less than a REAL writer, he told me I just needed a blog. Cue steam from ears.... I HAVE A BLOG! I told my fuming brain.... the problem? I don't write in it much. I have conversations in my brain all the time that need writing down... they just don't. Like my dishes in the sink that need washing and my laundry that needs to be done (and ahem.... folded....). I think it's time I grabbed the chalk and chalked the walk that I keep talking. I can't promise they'll all be good.... but they'll be something.

p.s. My son barfed in his teacher's arms today and almost took out an innocent little girl eating breakfast. I felt bad for her.

Hmph. Stewing some thoughts for better things to come.

Now where is that damn chalk?......