A New Kind of Resolution

Since I first knew what New Year’s resolutions were, I have diligently written down a long list of items that I’ve wanted to accomplish in the promise of a new year. Goals that I hadn’t voiced aloud in the previous year were written down on paper with a hope that the momentum of a fresh, blank page could make them materialize easier.

Amazingly, each year I’ve managed to accomplish several goals on my list. With satisfaction, I ticked these items off one by one, only to move on to the next item. But the next new year brings a fresh list of goals, and some that are carried over because time slipped by and they fell away with the passing months.
In a year that has brought many changes, for the first time since I was a teenager, writing down my resolutions has been difficult. I find myself disillusioned with unending goals; goals that only give me a moment of gratification before I move onto that next mountain I must climb. The happiness and satisfaction of an accomplishment has escaped me. This year I search not for accomplishment but for happiness, and the goals are obviously not bringing that elusive emotion to me.

So this year I’m doing things differently. A few months ago I began compiling a list of things I wanted to try that I’ve never allowed myself for various reasons to attempt. The final result is a list of thirty three experiences, one for each year of my life, which I want to discover a little bit of happiness from. Not too long ago I read that happiness comes by living in the moment, and that’s what I want. Thirty-three moments of authentic happiness to remind myself that a happy life exists in stringing together these moments, and not by dwelling on what could have been done differently.

Of course, I will write about each of these experiences as the year progresses, so I think I’ll keep the list a surprise for as the year unfolds. Can you think of an experience you’d want to have during this wonderful and promising year?

Lessons in Loss

When I was young, we spent most of my childhood up north at my Great-Grandmother’s house. My parents visited often, driving the five hours sometimes every other weekend. She was a tiny woman, who’d be waiting on the front porch of her gray house as we’d drive up. For some reason, I was the grandchild always allowed to sleep with her. Her room was the smallest bedroom in the house, and she had a full size bed piled with quilts that she’d made herself. It was the warmest and most comfortable spot in the house.


Every morning she’d wake at 4:30 to make a homemade breakfast for everyone. I’d crawl out of bed with her and peer over the counter as she mixed the flour, the Crisco, and milk to make homemade biscuits each morning. She’d put them in the oven and the smell would waft through the house until others would begin to rise at the warm smell of fresh biscuits.

But in the time that it took for her to mix and scoop out the biscuits I had her to myself, and I felt special, as if I was different from the others who’d sleep late.

When I was in second grade, she died. It shouldn’t have been surprising since she was ninety-one, but at seven I didn’t expect to lose anyone or fathom what that would mean.

In a town where you have to drive an hour to get to a grocery store, the wake is held inside the home. I was curious and wanted to see her, but I couldn’t bring myself to go near the casket. It didn’t seem right that she was in the corner of the living room, when I’d always seen her puttering around the kitchen or rocking in her rocker by the window near the fireplace. I escaped outside eventually with some cousins.

Seven was a long time ago, but I can remember standing on the cement walkway looking up at my cousin Christy, who was only a year younger than me. I’d come outside unable to watch anymore tears of the family that had been so close to her.

My cousin Christy’s eyes had scrunched up as she had a way of doing and exclaimed in her six year old screech, “You’re not going to cry, too.”

I swallowed my tears, feeling them fall on the inside instead. My great-grandmother was the first person who I was close to that had died, and I felt as if crying was wrong.

We continued to go up North to her house, visiting less frequently, but still returning often. The rooms would be filled with cousins and aunts and uncles, a house full. My parents slept in her room, and I never returned to that bed.

The house would wake to the smell of breakfast now made by my mom and aunts. I’d lie in bed with my eyes closed, listening to make sure everyone else was awake. Sometimes I’d wait until someone was sent to wake me up before crawling out of bed.

The little woman who always had a smile wasn’t there when I’d make my way into the kitchen after nine. Waking up early had lost its magical quality, and I never did it willingly again.

It’s funny how loss changes us in small ways. In ways we are unable to understand at an young age, but a change that lasts a lifetime. I still don’t cry easily, not wanting anyone to see my tears. Words spoken by a six year old unintentionally changed how I handle grief. I still don’t wake up early, and the smell of biscuits still brings me back to that kitchen, peering over the counter watching the seamless motions of my great-grandmother working on her dough, putting her love for her family into each biscuit.

What it Means to be Alone

When I was nine, my parents would argue, and to escape, my mom would put us in the car and drive around for hours. It wasn’t strictly a nine year old thing, but an awareness hit me at nine, and when I close my eyes, I remember myself as that girl, bangs in my face, hair down my back, and a face that hid my secrets. My sister would sometimes fall asleep in the back seat, but I would be wide awake on the passenger side, gazing out the window, trying to remain still, to go unnoticed.


During daylight, the drive was just another drive; the same sights, the sun making it seem almost normal to drive the same highways and roads over and over. But at night, I’d feel hope hidden in the darkness, a magic quality of what if things could change this night. What if this was the night that altered everything.

Sometimes my mom would reminisce about her life before she’d met my dad. At those times, I’d hear happiness in her tone that I’d never heard at any other time. It was a version of my mother that I could imagine as happy instead of the worn out, defeated one in the car.

At other times, the stillness in the car was like a person sitting between the bucket seats, and I’d stare out the window wondering what she was thinking. The sadness at those times weighed heavily in the car causing my chest to hurt.

I always thought that what she needed to hear was that it would be okay, but the nine-year-old girl in the passenger seat could never muster the courage to assure her that it would be okay if her parents weren’t together, that they should find a way to be happy.

Even though the drives went on for years until eventually we were teenagers, I never found a way to tell her. Eventually she began to disappear alone, leaving us behind, and I didn’t have to sit in the passenger seat and wonder. I sat at home and wondered if she would come home this time, or would this be the time she found what she was looking for in the darkness.

Tonight, I found myself in my own car. I needed to get out the house, and with really no reason to, I spontaneously decided to go get something to eat, though I wasn’t hungry. It was dark, with only the pin pricks of headlights and street lamps. I was brought back to those drives, and I understood for the first time why she’d get into the car and drive. Hope still existed in the darkness somewhere, and if I could drive long enough, and maybe get out of the car before it disappeared, I could catch it.

Now I know what my mother was thinking because I’m now in the driver’s seat. I no longer sit in the passenger seat, but the little girl who sat there all those years still exists inside of me. Glancing over at the passenger seat, I thought of that little girl, expecting to see her.

It was fear of being alone that always drove my mom back home. She weighed her choices, and fear of being alone always won out; it always led us back, parked in that driveway. She’d stare at the house for minutes, unable to leave, but not wanting to stay. She could never find the hope in the stillness of the night.

The girl never told her it was okay to be alone.

A few days ago, someone told me that it takes courage to leave the comfortableness of your life. During those car rides, my mom taught me that it takes more courage to stay gone than to leave, because eventually, loneliness swallows you. It’s at those times you have to maintain hope that it won’t be this way forever. I always saw the hope in the darkness as I stared out the window at the stars, blurring my eyes with the headlights so that the night could sparkle with the magic of hope.

Consulting the Stars

I must confess that I believe in horoscopes. I never really gave it much thought before because I’ve read them since I was a teenager. I didn’t go around confessing it to people though, and apparently for most people who know me, the actual belief is a cause for alarm. Since I have little faith in most things that I can’t logically explain with facts and reason, many friends have been surprised by me giving them credence.


Like most people, I used to read them for pure entertainment, but then something happened that made me reconsider their purely entertainment value.

One morning about a year and a half ago, my horoscope said to look around my house because some appliance would be going out. I paid little attention to it as I did most days with my horoscope. I didn’t inspect each appliance in my house because it would be silly to do it when a horoscope told you to. (I was imagining someone interrupting the inspection, and I’d never hear the end of that one.) However, my blaring freezer alarm warning that the ice cream had defrosted and dripped into the crevices of every other package would not be denied. I ended up with a brand new freezer and a new found respect and fascination with horoscopes. I’ve read them daily since then, waiting to see if another one would be as accurate.

Recently, someone pointed out that they are so general that of course it would seem that they would come true, but many things we put faith in are broad. I can’t count how many times I’ve been told that everything happens for a reason when something bad happens. Does it really have a reason though? Or do we put faith in the idea that it does, so we are bound to find a reason for it happening. We all want to believe that the major cataclysmic events in our lives aren’t random.

I’ve also encountered the argument recently that if we believe in something, we make it happen. That could be said for most of the outcomes of our choices. Our ability to achieve is mostly determined by what we are willing to do and how hard we’re willing to work to make something possible. If I want my horoscope to come true, then the stars should align and Venus should move into my house of sun. (Warning: It sounds good but I have no idea what they mean when they talk about those things in the horoscopes.)

So for me, a horoscope is a way to consider what I want for that day. It’s not an absolute. I don’t stay in bed if it’s a bad day according to my horoscope. I look in anticipation to what could be, and I guess if that makes me a contradiction in faith, then I’ll consult my horoscope about it…

Staging Inspiration

Saturday night I ventured out to watch several of my journalism students and a few past English students in a school performance of Treasure Island. The cast did an excellent job I must say. It always amazes me to see them outside of my classroom showcasing their talents (other than English, of course).


My godchild sat amazed at their running around the auditorium, and the interaction with the audience kept his attention. There was even a part for audience participation on stage.

Of course, that led to me being drug on stage to wipe the deck of the ship as a sailor. My students definitely wanted pay back for all those stories I make them write.

I’d say I was a good sport, though I’ve been coming up with creative ways to get them back this week. (Cleaning my classroom, maybe?)

It never fails though. When I begin to feel as if I’m not making a difference anymore, and I’m not sure if I should continue teaching, my students surprise me and show me that maybe I’m wrong. Maybe that promise I made to myself after the school shooting to make a connection with my students so that they are comfortable to ask for help, may be working out after all.

I do have a particular fondness for that group of students. They were my first group of students after the school shooting, and they were just what I needed to be inspired to teach again. And though most have moved on to the next grade, they still continue to drop in, stay awhile, and divulge the secret drama of their lives.

So I suppose I’m not really going to seek revenge for having to get on stage completely unaware of what do while up there. I may even thank them for the inspiration with cupcakes. Maybe. With my cooking ability that may not be thanks.

A Good Story

My usually active son has discovered  the escape that a book offers. Recently, he was sitting on a chair with his nose buried in a Diary of the Wimpy Kid book while his sister ran around outside. Being a conscientious parent, I urged him to go outside and play on such a nice day. He told me he wanted to read his book instead. I was caught in such a strong moment of Déjà vu that I had to stare at him a moment. He’d become me, and I’d become my mother.

I discovered books in the sixth grade and submerged myself to the exclusion of all other activities. My mother would constantly tell me to go outside. I’d simply read faster, trying to finish before I’d have to put it down. When she insisted I go outside, I carried my book outside and sat on the front porch, reading. When she needed to punish me, she took away my book or wouldn’t bring me to the library. Even today, a good story is an addiction for me. If a book grabs my attention, I will stay up all night until I know how it all turns out for the characters. I need to know as badly as I need to breathe.

So, I swore I’d never punish my children by taking away books, but now I find myself in the predicament of finding an alternative. Any form of exercise that wears them out and causes them to go to bed on time is encouraged.

My daughter can read several books a night and not have enough. I distract her by making up stories. Right now Cara the pirate has an exciting adventure each night in the bath tub as she finds new ways to get away from her sworn enemy catscratch. Andrew’s not so easy to distract, though I do catch him listening in from the next room, hanging onto every word, though he’d never admit it.

So since I can’t go back on my promise to myself, I’m looking for ideas for distractions. I’ve decided that it’s the best way to go. While I’m waiting for this fantastic adventure-filled distraction to plop into my conscious, I’ll just watch him read his books with a smile. It’s nice to know he shares my fascination with a good story.

Finding a Voice

If you keep up with my blog, you know I’m writing a children’s book that is highly anticipated by my son. I’m feeling the pressure of a deadline from an eight year old, and it may be as bad as having an editor on my case.


The rough draft is complete. The story is on paper with words that swim before my eyes as I read and reread them, trying to figure out what I need to do to make the story match what’s in my head.

I keep trying to find the voice of a child to tell the story, but my inner editor keeps pouncing on every simplistic word and description, and the end product ends up formal and stuffy, so unlike a child’s voice.

So I began paying attention to the stories my students tell. First, let me warn all parents that all children, no matter what age, love to tell stories about their families. The phrase “way too much information” was invented for the stories we hear from students.

My students are always requesting my stories though. They’ve even wanted several to be retold. So how come the words don’t flow onto the paper as easily?

I think it’s because my inner editor shuts off when I tell a story to a class full of students I want to impress with certain details. My voice, which is filled with imperfections and sarcasm, doesn’t worry about how I’m supposed to be writing. I’m not staring at the words on the page and seeing all their flaws.

But how does one turn the inner editor off when one is an English teacher? My students would be scandalized if I wrote grammatically incorrect.

They listen to my stories though. They appreciate that I can tell a story about when I was their age and actually get them. They even enjoy the sarcasm because it makes them laugh. That’s the voice I need to get on paper.

So I will return to the blank page and see if I can write the story that is in my head instead of what my inner editor is waiting to pounce on with her red ink pen.

New Resolution

At ten I wanted to be famous in a way that everyone knew me and envied my glamorous life as a writer. This was before I grew up to know that writer’s lives are not that glamorous and most are only recognized by their most avid fans.


You may ask why I am reminiscing about what I wanted to be when I grew up when I’m all grown up already. In the newest issue of Oprah magazine, an article stated that we’d have the most job satisfaction if we did what we wanted to do when we were ten.

My first thought was that at ten I still played with Barbie’s to act out my dreams. I don’t think they pay to play with Barbies. (Though, that may increase job satisfaction). But seriously, at ten we dreamed of being the best version of ourselves. The self that hadn’t figured out that we weren’t good enough yet at everything. But that may be the point.

What would we really be happy at doing if we didn’t doubt ourselves?

Truthfully, over the years I’ve had many distractions in the past that led me away from that ten-year-old version of myself. As I get older, and especially after my birthday this weekend, I think maybe I need to remind myself of what my ten-year-old self wanted. When I get busy, writing always gets pushed aside. (Hence, my blog is late). My childhood self would make enjoyment a priority. Maybe that’s what we really forget to do. We forget that work can be enjoyed and not just be a countdown until the weekend.

So I need to make writing a priority again, which means I’ll need to submit my blog on time and finish up that children’s book I keep dwelling on. I wonder if I can include Barbie dolls in this new plan. My daughter may like the playmate. I can always claim I’m acting out the story ideas I plan to write.

A List a Day...

I’m a list person. I make grocery lists, to-do lists, goal lists, and the list goes on, of course. I even have my five year old and eight year old creating lists when they need to clean their rooms or when they want to do several things in one day.


Recently, I’ve struggled with my lists because well, they are all work. Definitely nothing fun about house work, school work, and work in general. Once there used to be this exhilarating thrill when I completed the list, but as the lists grew, that satisfaction dissipated as I realized there wasn’t much time for anything but the tasks on the list.

So I experimented and attempted to forget the lists. For two weeks, I didn’t make a daily to-do list, not to mention the big one for special projects for the week. The result was I forgot my grade book at school when progress report grades were due. I forgot a test. I showed up for a parent conference on the wrong day. I basically made a mess of things. Not because I was lazy, but because I just couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do. My lists may not have been fun, but they substituted for my short term memory.

I had to rethink this problem. I suppose stopping lists cold turkey wasn’t the solution for me. Enter my idea to actually put the fun things on the list. Gone would be the problem of never doing anything fun, and I wouldn’t have to feel that nagging guilt because I was doing something fun before my list was all crossed out.

So I added throwing the Frisbee with my son and Wii night to my list, not to mention a game of Life where I finally won. I had the satisfaction of crossing things out on my list and having fun all at the same time.

Who knows? Maybe I may make out a list of only fun things. That’s an idea. I’ll get started right now.

Change of the Seasons

The crisp, cool air of fall has arrived heralding my favorite time of year. I once read somewhere that people have a preference for the season they were born. Though I don’t know if this is true for everyone, it is certainly true for me.


In South Louisiana, we don’t get to see the leaves change color, but we do notice the stifling heat give way to cool nights and crisp mornings.

My favorite part of fall is the bonfires though. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I paid much attention to the magnetic excitement that tingled through me as the flames scorched my face and the air chilled my body. I’d sit bundled up around the bonfire my dad had built for us, shivering and thriving on the rush.

The contradictory elements made me feel alive in a way that only teenagers feel. I can remember discussing the latest crushes and camping out in our old playhouse just to continue the night of excitement. The air electrified by the possibilities of what could happen during our chilly night under the clear, sparkling stars. An excitement that only the young experience.

So as fall arrives, I’m in need of some of that teenage resilience, so I’m welcoming the season wholeheartedly. I’m going to break out my sweaters, wrap myself in a blanket, and enjoy the beautiful clear darkness of a fall night.

One of the Boys

I know I've been missing in action recently, but I'm back. I thought I'd put this in for my English students, who are writing a similar assignment this week.

When I was a child, all I wanted to do was fit in with the boys of my family. It wasn’t until I was older that the girls outnumbered the boys, so I either played with the boys or I played alone. Being a girl in a boy’s domain was difficult, but I was always willing and up for the challenge. At least that’s what I believed that hazy morning when I went outside to play with the boys proudly wearing my brand-new, brown corduroy pants.


The sunny, cloudless sky created an ideal day to play chase, so of course that is what the boys had in mind. Being a girl, I always had to pay my dues, so we began with me being “it” as usual. I was faster than the younger Scott, so I caught up to him as he ran in and out the trees. Chad, however, decided to jump the fence leading into the woods. He stood on the other side of the barbed wire fence taunting me under the shade of the thick pine trees, while Scott urged me to jump the fence and go after him. I could feel my heart beat quicken as I built up the nerve to climb the fence. We’d been told stories about what lay in the woods on the other side of that fence. Stories I’m sure were told to keep us away, but the denseness of the forest and eerie quiet from the other side was enough to make you afraid to go anywhere near the rusting fence.

Finally, with heart pounding in my ear, I grabbed the fence and began to climb. The rusted chain link fence was rough beneath my small hands and left orange streaks in my palms, but I made it to the top. I threw one brown panted leg over, and I felt something sharp pierce my leg through the pants. I gave my leg a tug and a ripping noise echoed through the silent morning.

The game of chase had ended. Chad helped me and my torn pants down from the top of the fence before all the boys scattered into their hiding places reserved for such occasions. I nervously walked to my great-grandmother’s house alone. Chad’s words rang in my ears as I made that long thirty foot walk, crying. My mother was waiting, and I’d only had those brief moments to think of a story that would make Chad allow me to play with the boys again.

After spending two hours on my knees, I was released back outside with old pants and a sense of relief. Chad was waiting for me on the back steps. I had not tattled, as we called it as children. I’d remained loyal to my “boys.” Because as I had told my mom that day, I had only fallen next to the fence and ripped my pants. We weren’t really doing anything wrong. It was a motto I learned well as I attempted to fit in with the boys.

Adventure at the Car Wash

After twelve years of abstinence, I decided to wash my car. An older friend had once told me that there were certain things that a lady shouldn’t have to do, and I had wholeheartedly embraced this concept in terms of car washing and mowing the grass.

Of course, this philosophy works best when someone’s willing to wash said car for you, or you’re willing to sport a filthy ride.

So said car was dirty, and reality being that there is no one to wash it for me anymore, I figured I better try and determine if it was like riding a bike.(Hmm, I haven’t ridden one of those since I was a teenager. That may be the next task I need to take on.)

I enlisted the help of my two children with the idea that it would be a fun project for the three of us to do together.

In traditional fashion, personalities emerged quickly. My son enjoyed the process of completing a task, and he even stuck around to dry the car. Mini-Me lost interest before we made it to side two of the car. She instead decided to wash her scooter before moving on to a small ball.

The ball was interesting, for as you can imagine a ball won’t stand still when water shoots forcefully out of a garden hose at it. After chasing it around the driveway for a bit like a great puppy chase, she distracted her brother into helping her.  He proceeded to hold the ball out in front of him while she aimed the garden hose at it. She shot him with water up and down, narrowly escaping the ball with each pass, as he yelled, face turning red, for her to stop. I turned to intercede and startled her into turning the hose on me.

We emerged soaking wet, but with a clean car. One memorable family moment. Check.

I still haven’t relented on the mowing grass objection. I have to retain some claim on the saying that a lady should refrain from doing such dirty tasks. Besides, me with a lawn mower may be dangerous for all involved, but maybe the car washing business isn’t so bad.

A Halloween Rant

Terrebonne Parish and Lafourche Parish are voting to move this year’s trick or treating to October 30 instead of October 31, as it has been celebrated for two thousand years since the Celts.

Why? Because the Saints have a scheduled football game that night.

Am I the only person who thinks that this is ludicrous?

Why don’t we reschedule our other holidays around football season as well. Let’s move Christmas, Thanksgiving, and New Year’s because we want to spend time at a game instead of with family. Who cares how long these holidays have been celebrated on these special days?

Since when did our lives need to be scheduled around a game, which the name in itself implies recreation? It’s called priorities. People should decide what is more important: taking their children trick or treating or watching a football game. There shouldn’t be an option of changing a two thousand year old holiday because people don’t want to put their children before a past time.

One of the arguments used to support this change was that children would have to return to school the next day after a night of trick or treating. And what about all the previous years that children returned to school the day after Halloween night? I can remember as a child having to return to school the next day with my pockets full of candy and stories of what I’d seen for my friends. There was no suggestion of changing it then because there was no football game. It’s not as if Halloween falls on a weekend every year, and there were no complaints until a football game fell on the occasion.

Halloween should be left as is. It’s always been on October 31. Let it remain where it belongs.

Sorry for the rant, but sometimes I can’t help myself. (And contrary to popular belief, I do try. Well, sometimes.)

Smarter than a Kindergartener

My daughter began Kindergarten this past week. She attended preschool at the same school last year, so it wasn’t the big deal of a child's first day of school. There were no tears involved (I mean by me, of course).

She loves school and always has. At two years old, she sat down next to her brother and wanted to do his homework with him. Weeks before Kindergarten began, she bounced around for weeks asking when would she get to go to school.

On Friday, only a few days after starting, she returned home with an interesting take on learning.

As I was getting ready to go out, she came find me to tell me she wanted to beat a little boy in her class. I had to pause a moment. Though she’s a rough little girl and has been known to chase her brother down with boxing gloves, she doesn’t like to get into trouble at school. I questioned her, and she rushed into a story about this boy thinking he’s smarter than her, so she’s going to beat him.

I sighed with relief. I wouldn’t be summoned to the principal’s office, chastised for poor parenting, but then she explained that I was going to help her. She’s going to do first grade work in Andrew’s old books so she can get smart.

Wanting to reassure her confidence, I told her that she was already smart.

She laughed and said, “I know that already, Mommy. I want to be smarter.”

Did I have that confidence at five? I think I may remember it. There was a kindergarten incident where I built a tower of blocks and knocked it over onto another little girl, on purpose.

On second thought, I think I’ll just let her carry on without interference. She’s doing a wonderful job all on her own.

First Fans

In the midst of my first week of the school year, my son reminded me that I have another job that he’s a bit more interested in me completing.

This summer I began writing a middle grade fantasy novel. I was feeling a little less than creative with the stories I was working on, and I thought it would be a way to loosen my imagination and my anxiety over not writing anything worth reading. Basically, I was looking for something to relieve the pressure that I was putting myself through.

But at some point in the summer, Andrew began wondering what I was spending hours each day working on. (He had a fascination with computers this summer that had him questioning how long it took UPS to deliver my new computer, so he could get my old one. It amounted to the same feeling that “Are we there yet?” amounts to on an eleven hour drive to Disney World.) I explained to him that I was writing a children’s story that we could read together when I finished.

Daily, I caught him glancing over my shoulder. He began asking questions about the story and the characters. I shared a bit with him, and his questions grew. I’d feel his presence behind me and turn to see him peering over my shoulder trying to get a glimpse at what I was working on. He wanted to know when it would be finished.

When I finished the rough draft, I told him that it would be awhile before I finished working on the revisions. Then school started, and I had to put it aside to get myself organized.

While checking some student work this week, Andrew and his cousin burst into the house excitedly discussing something. Apparently, Andrew had been filling him in on the adventure story he’s waiting to read, and now they both want to know when it will be done. They bombarded me with questions like what’s the title, what happens, is it a series, etc.

The ten seconds of excitement at having my first fans soon gave way to the pressure of an uncompleted manuscript. I’ve taught children for twelve years, and they certainly won’t hesitate to tell you that something is horrible. I think I’m going to get back to that second job. I certainly don’t want to disappoint these two eight year olds.

Thirty Eight Seconds

On May 18, 2009, a student walked into my classroom brandishing a gun and spouting profanity at a classroom full of seventh graders. The clock on my podium blinked 8:52, and it was the middle of my first period class. Until that moment, I’d been thrilled how the end of school was going, and that the students loved their end of year projects.

Thirty-eight seconds can feel like a lifetime, and even after when I was asked how long he remained in my room, I said a few minutes, for we’d like to believe that the events that alter the course of our lives at least amount to minutes, if not hours or days. How could it only be seconds?

In the seconds he remained in my room, not a single student moved. Their innocent and fearful eyes remained on me, waiting for me to show them what to do. I stared at this pale teenage boy in camouflage shorts, and thought that this had to be some security drill, for how could it possibly be real? My mind formed a loop of It can’t be real…Is this real? It can’t be real…

He yelled and cursed and told us to get down, but his words were background noise. I stared at that gun and thought it had to be a toy. Didn’t it look fake? Wasn’t it something to be bought in the toy department? When he attempted to shoot at the dry erase board and the gun didn’t fire, my brain offered it up as proof that it wasn’t real. When he played with the gun’s safety feature, I actually shifted from behind the podium considering a motion to move forward, but then he turned the gun on me.

I gave him one of my looks. My students called it “you’ve really said something stupid” look. I taught seventh graders and used the look often. They’d always back track and correct themselves. I waited for him to laugh, to say that it was a hoax. For how could this be real? He told me to pray to Marilynn Manson which made it even more unbelievable, since I had long stopped praying to anybody. Why would I need to pray for a hoax?

It wasn’t until the gun fired and plaster splattered through the air onto me and the students near me, that my brain wavered in its conviction that it was some elaborate safety drill or prank.

I whipped around to see the gaping chunk of plaster missing, and my brain stopped all thoughts, everything became sharper. The disgusted sound he’d muttered after, the stroll to the back of the class, his attempt to take another student from the room with him. Though I couldn’t speak through the paralysis that had overtaken me, I maintained eye contact with my student, pleading with my eyes for him not to go. My students looked to me, and I was powerless to stop whatever might happen at that moment, in what felt like eternity, but was only seconds.

In the thirty-eight seconds he remained in my room, fear never overcame me. Fear required time to think, and it was during the walk to the door he’d left open behind him as he ran out where fear coursed through me. I needed to lock that door, but what if he returned before I made it to the door? What if he waited for me on the other side?

The hours that followed in that darkened classroom were what I thought were the longest of my life. I was wrong.

Inside those four walls each person in that room had seen the same incident. We were relieved to be unharmed, and we didn’t judge how anyone reacted in the aftermath. We could laugh and not worry what the outside world would say upon our exit.

There was a brief moment during those hours, that the fear nearly gripped me. The bullet had ricocheted off the wall and landed near the feet of a student. When he handed me the bullet with shaking fingers and fear clouding his brown eyes, I held it in the palm of my hand and shook with the realization that it had been meant for me. But even then, I didn’t have time to give into fear because my students called to me, needing reassurance that it was over, that he wasn’t coming back. They needed me to be strong. I would not give into fear. Though I have qualms about what I could have done differently, I’ll always know that I showed them how to exhibit strength and calmness during a crisis.

Fear did not come until I was separated from my students. When I was removed from everyone and had to watch children being evacuated with their hands in the air with SWAT looking down from the school’s roof. When I had to watch his sister being told about her brother. When others gave me looks of sympathy. That’s when I took deep breaths and told myself that I wasn’t going to cry. It had happened to me at my school, but I sat there unharmed and my students were okay. After my interview with the detectives and the Sheriff, I was given the choice to remain alone or return to my students. I returned to my students. Calmness could return when I could look in their faces and see that they were still okay. It meant that I could be okay, too.

During the interview, one of the detectives told me that I could go home and curl up in a ball and cry. I didn’t. I generally only spark with anger when upset, refusing to give into tears. It wasn’t until the Saturday morning six days later, when I received a call that the student had died from his self-inflicted gunshot wound, that I cried.

I didn’t understand my tears that day, because the only emotion I’d allowed into my self-imposed numbness was anger. Anger that it had happened to me. I felt raw and vulnerable. Two emotions that I never allowed myself.

It wasn’t until months later, when no one asked how I was doing anymore, that I understood the tears. He’d died, and I’d never know why. If he’d believed I was a bad teacher, had treated him unfairly, had spoken unkind words then I could find a reason in the randomness. A reason that I’d done something that I should have been punished for. But I didn’t know him or ever teach him. I didn’t even know if he was a student at our school the day he walked into my classroom. I’ll never know why he chose me except for my proximity to the restroom, which seems insignificant for the life changing effects of how that incident has affected me.

Most people thought I wouldn’t return to teaching. Most people who know me know that I never planned on being a life-long teacher. Sheer will and a need to be there for any student who returned to my class propelled me to school the next day. Eleven of the twenty-three returned to my class the next day. Sheer determination kept me returning for the remaining two weeks of school as one by one they returned to me searching for assurances. I believed I’d be okay.

Then a new school year dawned, and I had to begin anew with a group of students that I didn’t know, all strangers like the shooter had been. That first day felt like my first year of teaching even after eleven years. I searched their faces, wondering about the thoughts behind those faces. Could I trust them? What pain did they hide from the world?

Luckily, I had a wonderful group of students who taught me just as much as I taught them. Most days I could enter my classroom and focus on what mattered, and that was being the person who listened when they needed me to, and taught them to open their eyes to the world through literature and writing. Most importantly, they taught me that I still wanted to be a teacher .

Most days I can pretend I’m safe, as long as I avoid the stairs, as long as my door is locked, as long as the lights don’t go off, and the list goes on. It’s a delicate balance that I hope one day to forget that I’m walking.

At the beginning of a new school year, I was always thrilled for the chance to start fresh. Now I can’t wait until I know my students, and my fears can rest as I walk into my classroom.

A student will always ask. Some brave soul who’s heard rumors about the shooting and has courage enough to want to know the truth. I’ll always be honest, but I’m also the teacher. If we don’t open the eyes of the people who can change things, we may not prevent it from happening again.

Because as my son said, “If he didn’t hurt anyone, then he didn’t deserve to die.” Maybe next time that someone will know to ask for help if he/she knows someone is listening, and that’s all we can ask for.

Ode to Summer

As I was swimming laps in my pool yesterday evening, I had to sigh at my two days left of summer vacation. I can’t help but wonder where the lazy days of summer have gone.

As a child, summer lasted forever. The only worry I had was how much Sun In I could put on my hair in a day or how tan could I get without looking as if I needed to change my race status. With nothing but a good book to worry about, I didn’t notice time marching onward.

Fast forward to as an adult where I have to cram everything I don’t get done during the school year into a dwindling summer, and it’s no wonder I like to reminisce about those summers where my to-do list had items like midnight hide-n-seek.

What I really miss about summer is writing time. It’s the only time of the year where I don’t feel guilty not grading papers or writing lesson plans. I can spend whole days writing and reading and not balance the two- one job that pays and the other that doesn’t.

Sigh again. One day left of my summer and counting. Oh, how I’ll miss summer.

Lost in a Harry Potter Book

Where does every true Harry Potter fan need to visit? The Wizarding World of Harry Potter, of course. I just arrived home from a three day visit at Universal Studios Florida, and though my feet can’t walk anymore, I’m still telling stories about the experience.

Being a fan of the books since they debuted, I appreciated the movies bringing the story to life. Ultimately, there was always a bit of disappointment at the scenes and characters left out. I’ve always found it to be true that books are better than movies. So I was curious as to how I’d like my favorite books being turned into a theme park with rides and attractions.

With the first peek at the castle’s spires, excitement and awe grew. One doesn’t see too many English castles in the South. At the entrance to the world, it’s as if the pages of the book have opened and sucked you inside like Harry was sucked into Riddle’s Diary.

Hogsmeade Village with its post card snow-capped roofs was as I imagined it from the page, except I was able to walk into these story book shops and browse the same items Harry Potter buys in the books. Caution: If you’d like to take these goodies home with you, be prepared to pay real money and not galleons at these stores. A single chocolate frog that Harry always loads up on was ten dollars. I’d like to know the exchange rate between muggle money and Gringott’s because I think their currency is faring much better in our economy.

The ultimate experience is the castle. In the long hour queue, one walks through the dungeons pass the potion’s classroom and storeroom. You then precede forward through the herbology classrooms, and then pass Dumbledore’s staircase into his office. Then Harry, Ron, and Hermione greet you in the Defense Against the Dark Arts’ classroom until you finally reach the ride. The ride is the best ride I’ve been on with a mixture of digital images of the characters and dragons and animated creatures like Aragon and the dementors. You whirl, you turn, you fly, you fall, you’re chased by a dragon, you play Quiditch. It’s the ultimate Harry Potter experience.

I would have waited the hour and a half again, but my son wouldn’t return. Too much spinning and falling backward for him. It's certainly a ride for the older fan.

We then journeyed to the Flight of the Hippogriff, to which we walked pass Hagrid’s hut and gardens. A barking Fang could be heard from inside the hut and Buckbeak waited for you as you passed by on the roller coaster. This was the kid’s version of the roller coaster, and I have to admit, I didn’t do the grown-up version. As I tell my son, I don’t do anything that flips me upside down. I guess he gets it from me.

At Olivander’s wands, my son wanted to choose a wand so we waited in line for over an hour to watch the scene where Harry Potter’s wand chooses him. The scene was performed by an Olivander that looked similar to the actor in the movie and a boy from the audience. My son then selected Harry Potter’s wand to go along with the broomstick he had bought after the ride through the castle. He paid thirty plus dollars apiece for these Harry Potter items. All money he’d saved for his journey into the books he loves.

Through this long line at Olivander’s, we also sampled Butterbeer, which is the drink of choice for the Hogwarts’s students in the book. The frothy cream on top was like homemade vanilla ice cream that had been whipped to the consistency of whip cream. The drink under the cream tasted like a sweet cream soda. The line during the afternoon was extremely long (fifty plus people at a small kiosk in the center), and we were able to sample it without too much wait because we tried it in the morning. While there, I also purchased a bottle of pumpkin juice that I haven’t brought myself to taste yet. (I wonder if it tastes like pumpkin pie?)

We visited Zonko’s joke shop and Honeyduke’s. We even looked in at The Three Broomsticks restaurant. My only complaint of the park was the amount of people. In the morning the line to get into the world weaved throughout the park, and they only allowed so many people in at a time. During the afternoon, the world was open, and you could barely walk from the amount of people on the streets. I’d say I’m not the only fan that wanted to see a book come to life.

That’s what makes it the ultimate experience though. How often do we get to see a book come to life not just in our imaginations, but something tangible that we can experience. I’ll definitely return one day. Maybe I’ll even try that Dragon Challenge. (I doubt it though).

Shopping Addict Takes on Back to School

It’s the time of the year when parents begin thinking about back to school and the dreaded back to school shopping. As a child, I loved back to school shopping. Of course, shopping of any kind for me is like an addict's next fix.

It’s not just the clothes, although my closet can speak for itself. I confess that I love school supplies: the notebooks, shiny pencils, pink staples, the whole works.

When I was in fourth grade, everyone who was anyone had a Trapper Keeper. I coveted every single one of those lucky kids whose parents were willing to plop down the cash for one. I gazed at them longingly in the store, begging my mother to spend what she thought was too much on a binder that hadn’t been part of my school supply list. She finally relented, and at the store, I selected a unicorn Trapper Keeper with shades of pink and purple rainbows framing it in its glory. I cherished that binder and kept it for years, even after it split at its bindings and frayed at its no longer white edges.

What I didn’t have to think about when I was a student was the price of anything. Taking my children school shopping this week, I no longer felt that excitement when the register rang up all the required items on their supply lists.

My daughter was completely oblivious to this (like her mother had been, of course). She behaved like a child without her ADHD meds, bouncing around the store requesting if each item she touched was on her list. If it wasn’t, she wanted to know why. She’s in love with shopping, and has been since at eighteen months old she’d run through the children’s clothes section and hold up clothes to herself to see if it “fit.” I knew I was in trouble then, and she hasn’t done anything to change my mind since.

I don’t call her mini-me for nothing.

Thankfully, she hasn’t figured out that you can buy items that aren’t on a school supply list. I probably need to start saving for when she figures it out.

As a teacher, I still have the occasion to buy office supplies, and I still enjoy the excitement of back to school shopping. I’ve already prepared myself with tons of pink staples, plenty of purple ink pens, and all the sticky notes a person could use in a lifetime.

Though I love to prepare, the dreaded first day of school is a different story. And you better believe the day and the story is coming.

Birthday Party Hits and Misses

Andrew celebrated his eighth birthday today, which means between my two children, I’ve planned thirteen birthday parties. I admit that most of these parties have been on the outlandish side.

For his fourth birthday, I took a can of white spray paint and painted a race track in my backyard. I made card board replicas of the cars from the movie Cars, and the children raced around the track.

Once, I even set up an entire circus in my yard complete with tent, carnival games, and a cotton candy machine (yum…that was a big hit). We had clown costumes, and I made my daughter the perfect circus dress to wear. Of course, she was two and only remembers it from the pictures.

Through the thirteen parties, we’ve had water slides and jump houses, treasure hunts, mystery games, tea parties, and we even slayed a dragon once (I created an elaborate story for the birthday guests where they were all Princes and Princesses and needed to slay the dragon- complete with take home story books, of course). All of these ideas have worked out great but were in the exhausting, I need a year’s break, sort of way. But here are a few pointers for anyone looking to go further than that prepackaged box of birthday supplies you could order online and be done with it.

First, not all children like the birthday song. For my son’s second birthday, as we broke into the familiar chorus, he broke into screaming tears. I’d seen it once before with a cousin and thought it funny; I did not think it funny with my own child. So the next year, we took baby steps. I made a small cake, and we had two cousins sing to him, and by the time we go to the real party, he put his head down, but there was no tears. Of course, I noticed as the children sang to him for this birthday, he zoned out. I can’t make him like it, but at least there are no more tears.

Secondly, don’t play competition games for prizes if your child cannot take losing. For my son’s fifth birthday, he spent a good deal of the party pouting and upset after he didn’t win any of the games. My daughter will cry and whine if she doesn’t get a prize at any birthday party. I had to stop at a Wal-Mart once on the way home from a birthday party just to get her to stop. (Some would say this is bad parenting, but they’ve never seen how long she can hold out. She is my daughter after all.)

If you’re considering doing it once and being done with it, consider this. Children get used to it- and want more. My children start requesting as I’m cleaning up the mess of the current party. They’ve requested fashion shows and costume parties and any activity imaginable. This brings me to my last lesson…

Keep it simple. The year of the circus fiasco, I didn’t have time to speak to any of my guests. For the cars party, I ran around and fell over exhausted at the end of it. For some of the most outlandish parties, I can’t tell you who actually came to the party because I was too busy trying to get it to come together.

For my son’s birthday party this year, I kept it simple. Of course, I didn’t know what to do with myself after I’d prepared in under two hours. I’d almost forgotten how to greet guests since usually I’m running around with only time for a quick nod. I even sat down and talked with good friends and family.

There were no requests put in for next year yet, but at the end of the day, he’d had a great birthday. Now as far as his present of a Rip Stick, I have a feeling he’ll be providing me with story material in the future.

Five for Five

Mini-Me begins tumbling camp today. Nothing brings as much apprehension or fear as her learning how to do tricks. The idea of her using my sofa as a trampoline or my living room rug as a gym mat sends chills through me.

So why would I put my five-year-old in tumbling?

I want her to learn how to fall; the way that doesn’t involved hurting herself.

You see, she’s had stitches in her chin five times.

The first time she dangled herself between a sofa and a chair as if she were on the parallel bars with the result that she fell splat between the two. Through profuse bleeding, I could see into layers of skin to what lay beyond. In the hospital, I held her and watched as the doctor sewed up her chin as she stared at me with big, watery eyes, too brave to cry. I remember thinking I never wanted to do this again.

Fast forward a few months when she and her brother decided to wrestle on the rug, and she landed off the rug directly onto her chin. I bravely took her to the hospital all by myself because I was the mom, and I could handle this. (Mind you that when I was a teenager, I passed out watching my mother get a blood test.)

Two weeks later the redness hadn’t disappeared yet, when at a wedding she danced over to the chair I was sitting in and came down directly on the top of it with her chin. Luckily, the wedding was next door to the hospital.

Did I mention this was all before the age of four? Three times in three years. The doctor stopped telling me that the scar would fade. It would be permanent now.

She managed a whole year without falling. My running joke at the time was that as soon as I finished paying the hospital, she would fall again. I should have known it was coming since I hadn’t sent a check to the hospital for a few months.

You’ll notice that I managed to remain calm through three incidents. In my defense, that kind of patience eventually runs out.

My children decided to fight over a wooden block that I’d bought when my son was a baby. I told them to share. I told them to stop arguing. I told them all the usual mom things. When my son began chasing her, I yelled for them to stop. Seconds later, my son was on top of her, and of course, Mini-Me had smacked her chin against the ceramic floor once again.

To say I was angry was an understatement. My mother-in-law commented as I sped to the hospital that she should have driven. I forced my son to stand at the foot of her hospital bed and watch the doctor stitch his sister’s scarred chin once again. My mother-in-law kept asking to take him from the room, but I was determined he would learn to stop playing rough with his sister. (I know, not the best idea for my son’s mental health, but still, at the time it seemed right).

It worked for awhile. The month before her fifth birthday, she attempted a trick on her scooter that she’d seen her brother do and flipped off head first, and you guessed it, landed on her chin. Back to the hospital we went. This time while she was sitting on her bed with her anxious brother lecturing her on how she wasn’t old enough to try the tricks he could do, I decided to have the talk.

You know the one about she didn’t have to have stitches for every year of her life. Five for five is a descent record to end this streak.

So that brings us to tumbling. I’m hoping that this will work. Otherwise, I think I’ll have to continue my search for a permanent chin guard or a padded suit.

Storytelling

I’ve always wanted to be a storyteller. As a child, I’d make up stories (i.e. lie) to get out of trouble. No, I don’t know what happened to that bracelet. I found it like that. Then when I wanted to bring my purse to school in first grade, I gave my next door neighbor babysitter a look and told her, of course, my mother allows me to have a purse at school. (To which I lost that very same day. Who allows a first grader to bring a purse to school anyway?) First rule of storytelling was to make it believable, which meant not blinking and keeping a straight face as you told your carefully rehearsed story. Without those essential tools, you created doubt in your audience. Every good story, no matter what genre, needs to make the reader believe it’s possible. So I was on my way to becoming a storyteller even when I convinced that girl on the bus that I’d been in a television show, and I could get her the autographs of the other stars in the show. (Sorry about that).

Then, I discovered books, and they- gasp- were lies that were acceptable and didn’t get the writer in trouble with their parents. I tried my hand at it when I was ten, and learned valuable lesson number two. When creating characters, base them loosely on real people or you might create a feud among your tween friends, and your dad will question if you think he’s as evil as the father in your story. I have never made that mistake again. Now I use pieces from people I know and mix them all up so no one can tell I was really talking about… Well, you get the idea.

After I learned I wanted to write stories, I had to find someone to listen to them because what’s a storyteller without an audience? Getting people to sit and listen when I was young and bossy was easier. Through bullying, I had a willing (ahem, captive) audience. Getting agents and publishers to read is a different story. I don’t think threats work as well with agents and editors as they did when I was a child hounding my friends, family, and occasionally the perfect stranger to read my latest creation. So now I have a whole new set of lessons to learn as I try to get stories published.

I’m sure my English students can’t wait, so that they can stop being my captive audience. For now, I’ll just blog about my stories and try to keep it entertaining.