Forty.

Today I am forty years old.

Forty.

One of my favorite authors, Joan Didion, explained her personal purpose for penning words: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

Most of my friends know me as a gregarious, bawdy, ridiculously unfiltered figure. Rules, in my world, exist on a sliding scale. I prefer to ask for forgiveness.  I am the thrill-seeker, the comedian, the one who says all the things. Recently a colleague joked that no one would ever be able to “one up Marshall” because I don’t subscribe to a definable line in the sand. I own, entirely, my enjoyment of pushing boundaries and buttons, walking the tight-rope between what is acceptable and what is inappropriate. For better or worse, I’m that friend and colleague and I’d like to think everyone needs someone like this in their lives, if not for simply to add some color – but that may just be me rationalizing my, sometimes, less-than choice antics.

Friendships are very important to me; I rely on them heavily. For those whom I count as the inner circle, I am ferociously loyal and protective. If ever a moment has occurred where I feel I’ve made a misstep, I am wrecked. Not just sad or apologetic but riddled with anxiety until the air has been cleared of any transgressions. Beyond this, the friendships that I hold close are immensely fundamental to my life. I just got back from having spent three nights in New York with my local tribe and it was nothing short of fabulous. These women and their friendships are infinitely validating and what sustain me. They are the constant when other parts of my life have gone, or go, haywire. 

At my core, I am hard-wired to be an athlete. Over the years, athletics have manifest in various iterations. At six, I began gymnastics. I was certain I was going to be the very next Mary Lou Retton, and cartwheels I turned, relentlessly on our front lawn. There was a brief stint on a swim team – breast stroke and freestyle were my jam. At thirteen I donned my first pair of soccer cleats, and I was hooked, riding the sport all the way into college on a partial scholarship to a Division I team.

I started on the field as a defender, made my way up to an offensive half-back, and just as my skills were becoming laser sharp, I tore my ACL. After recovering from surgery, I was put into the goal as a way to preserve my knee and as it turned out, the position came naturally to me. The acrobatic skills I’d acquired as a gymnast, served me well. And I was a bit of a kamikaze.

My senior year of high school, I blew out my knee, again, busted my ass to come back from that, and then months before graduating, I tore my shoulder on a dive. Because of the shoulder injury that required surgical intervention, I had to red-shirt my freshman year of college. By the time I made it back onto the field, my sophomore year, I was running on steam. In one of the hardest decisions of my life, at the end of my sophomore year of college, I chose to relinquish the scholarship, and turned in my jersey.

Never have I ever won an MVP award. Never. But – I’ve won, more times than I can count, “Most Inspirational.” In high school I became comfortable in my role as the underdog, always climbing my way back from some injury, some surgery – in fact, I got really good at it. No bigger was there a challenge than rehabbing reconstructed knees and shoulders. I love physical challenges, and it’s precisely why in the years that followed soccer retirement that I ran a marathon and competed in sprint triathlons. It’s why, today, I’m running consistently again, and lifting weights. I completed a half marathon in May, with, as it turned out, undiagnosed pneumonia. I thought I had a bad cold. My bad. It’s tempting to do another half, but I haven’t committed to it just yet; to keep things interesting, in September, I will be participating in a Tough Mudder. You know – for fun.

It is clear to me now, more than ever, that I have enjoyed the struggle – the climb. Making progress, and showing measurable advancements is incredibly motivating. I’ve never been a first-place finisher, and frankly, I’m not interested in winning races, but instead completion and working towards personal bests. I have nothing to prove to anyone but myself. If a mile takes me twelve minutes one day, and nine the next, so be it. At this point in my life, sustainability is the brass ring. Setting an example for my daughter as a woman who takes care of her body, who runs and lifts because it makes her feel good – that’s where I win.

When I began college, I thought I wanted to be a pediatrician. Several bombed math and science classes later, I realized that while I loved the idea of working with kids, I did not love the science behind medicine. There was a brief period where I reasoned that teaching elementary school would fit me best. Laughable, I know. Late in my sophomore year, I heard author John Edgar Wideman, speak. During the Q&A at the end, he said something that would change my life forever – he said, “If you want to do something easy, eat bananas. If you want to be a hero, teach high school.” Done. I declared myself a writing major with the intent to teach high school English. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past fourteen years. Beyond teaching English though, I do plenty of the less academic: I’m in charge of our social committee, so when babies are born, vows are made, or someone must bury a loved one, it’s me who makes sure that gets recognized. I’m also in charge of putting on prom. It’s not a role for which I win Staff Member of the Month, but every single year, I put together a beautiful party for my seniors and juniors. It’s a gorgeous evening, and it happens because of me. But the best and most rewarding facet to my career is getting to know my students – their lives, and who they are beyond the essays they write for me. There’s payoff in these efforts, because long after they’ve graduated, a handful stay in touch. Some have even thanked me. I keep those letters they’ve written close at hand; they are treasures.

Motherhood: I have waxed poetic, pondered, scrutinized, and emoted all over the page with regards to being Lucy’s mama. As she grows, I grow too. It has become clear there is no finish line, and the ravines are oftentimes steep and dark. The mama I aim to be to this stardust little girl, is a mama who recognizes her missteps, can reflect on them, and do better next time. I want to be the mama to give her space to climb the tallest trees and allow her to fall – to not catch her (even when my hands compulsively want to reach out), so that she learns the value in overcoming the break. But make no mistake, I want to arm her. My history is inscribed with #metoo. The stories, yes plural— I don’t tell often, not out of shame, but more so because they don’t arise in typical pedestrian conversation. The gritty details are unnecessary, but these experiences most certainly inform how I parent my daughter and the conversations we have about consent. Much as I want to shield her from the ugliness lurking beyond the walls of our home, I know I cannot. What I can do is make sure she knows that no one, man or woman, will trespass the geography of her body without her explicit consent. She will also know what it means to be groomed, and when she’s more emotionally capably of understanding, I will tell her of the red flags I missed, and I will watch for those with her, always an ally. The horrifying reality is even in doing so, I know I still won’t be able to stop all the monsters. I can only hope that if the ugliness should reveal itself to her, she has the wherewithal to recognize the situation and save herself. It’s a lot to ask, I know.

She has been the mirror into which I see myself, every flaw and virtue. The brilliant in her, is a piece of the best in me. The dark in her, are the shadows in me. Love is too precise a word when it comes to my daughter. We are messy, a calamity, unbridled laughter and tears. We are both I’m sorry and I’m scared. We are try harder and I love you most. Together we are Wonder Women. I repeat to myself, constantly, that she does not belong to me. She belongs only to herself. She will have her own ideas, opinions and desires. I cannot get in her way. What I wish to foster within her, for as long as I have any kind of influence, is a stockpile of grit, empathy, and confidence. The rest is up to her. And if she talks about smashing the patriarchy in first grade, well then, we’ve added a cherry on top – nolite te bastardes carborundorum, my darling.

Big Red. I don’t speak of him often in this space because he largely likes to remain anonymous, and while our story together belongs to me, so too does it belong to him. What I can say about the past eighteen years with this man is that it’s been about learning, evolving, and adventure. Like every other couple on the face of the planet, we experience a range in delights and misfortunes. He pisses me off. I piss him off. He rolls his eyes at my political statement t-shirts in which I express my love and support for those on the fringes and he braces himself when I propose crazy ideas. He thinks I’m bananas for waking up at “four ass early” to go running and can’t for the life of him understand why I’d lay down $100 to run a muddy obstacle course with my friends. He doesn’t stop me from talking to our daughter of the importance of busting through the glass ceiling or ranting about the social constructs of bras. It’s cool. We’re two wildly different people. Listen, he may not bring me random gifts, or may falter with words of affirmation (my love language), but for eighteen years, even in our darkest hours, he’s never gotten in the way of me being me. He’s never once tried to change who I am. Never. He loves me in his own way, no flash, no pretense - and that’s not for nothing.

I have never jumped out of an airplane.

I have four tattoos (and an upcoming appointment for another, maybe two).

I have never been asked out on a date. Yes, really.

I love photography.

I want to be loved.

I want to be wanted.

I have a terrible temper, but a long fuse.

I have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

I love sushi and ice cream. Not together.

I do not embarrass easily.

My emotional side overrules my logical side, often.

I have no regrets, just lessons learned.

That has to be enough.

I am enough.

I am a walking dichotomy, more resolved than ever to be a strong and confident woman, feminist, mother, partner, and friend.  Forty years has amounted to a series of moments that, collectively, create my wondrous life. Magic, really. I don’t know what it all means, so I’m just going to keep on, keep’n on. One foot in front of the other, face to the sun, learning, and living my best life.

I listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

Girlfriends

Last weekend, I spent four glorious days with some of my closest girlfriends from college, and it was nothing short of fantastic. Three of us flew down to meet the fourth in Miami, and then we drove west to Marco Island where we checked into a modest little condo that sat a block back from the beach.

When I returned to work on Tuesday, several colleagues mentioned I had a “glow” and they wanted to know about the trip. My response was sincere and void of any hyperbole when I offered that the trip was soul-rejuvenating.

We met our freshman year in college; the fall of 1996. I knew not a single human when I stepped off the plane in Pittsburgh, having flown across the country to attend the University of Pittsburgh. These were the girls who had dorms on my hall, and somehow, we naturally just gravitated towards each other. Our collective friendship has run the gauntlet after two decades, experiencing lots of highs but as well, bouts of silence and distance. But – as I wrote in a post on social media: I met these girls 21 years ago; we were babies, unsure of the women we would become. We have grown up together, sometimes separated by distance, some spans of silence, but always tied together by those formative early years. These are the women who know my story, and who champion the person I have become. These past few days were belly laughs, and tears, and filling in the blanks of the past two decades. I love them dearly, and hope my daughter one day finds a tribe as special as this one.

And that’s just it – the idea of a tribe. The people upon whom you rely, whether it be in big ways or small, but the ones who know all chapters of your life, the women who have read your story, and continue to stand by you. Those are the ones you hold onto. The language of a female friendship is unlike any other. In fact, sometimes there is no language in the literal sense. So many times last weekend, not a single word was uttered before we all fell into a pile of tear-induced, side-aching laughter. That deep kind of belly laugh that washes over you. There were stories of marriage and divorce, miscarriage and children, despair, and success. At one point we all disclosed how much we earned in our respective careers, and you know what was beautiful about that conversation? When my pals, who all make more than me, said their numbers aloud, I was genuinely proud of them. Here were these women with whom I shared dorm rooms with, women I remember studying their asses off, and dammit – they deserve these amazing careers! The crawl in my mind was not one of jealousy but one of total happiness. I mean lets be real, my friends are total badasses.

As someone who wears many hats, it was lovely that no one was requesting anything of me – no papers needed to be graded, no lunch needed to be packed, no appointments needed to be made, no bills needed to be paid, no photos needed to be edited. I was unfettered for a weekend, and it was, in fact, soul-rejuvenating. It came as no surprise that we all emphatically agreed to not let another two decades go by before hanging out again, and there may or may not be an impromptu meet up this fall, and perhaps another bigger trip in the works for 2020.

Finally, I realize that I am quite lucky to have been able to take a vacation, to spend the time and money on myself in this manner, and it has not gone unnoticed. Yes, I am owning my privileged. The time spent with these amazing, brilliant, and wildly successful women, while the kick off to my self-proclaimed Year of 40, was, in retrospect, sorely needed. I came back rested, happy, resolute in my belief of the importance of friendships, and ready to make the most of 2018. These women, this friendship, is necessary to my ability to live my very best life.

Sara, Pam, Erin (and Jenny): here’s to another two decades.

Spring Break 2012

Awesome.

That's what spring break 2012 has been for this gal.

First things first: a word on friendship. A little over a year ago I wrote about the friendships in my life. Specifically one that had fallen by the wayside, one that I'd all but given up on. It was hurtful, but I didn't know any other way to make it better, so I did my best to move on from the loss - and a loss it was. This was a friend who held an incredibly important history in my life, and her absence was deeply felt. I'm happy to say that through a series of emails, we have slowly begun to reconnect. I wanted to do something for her son who turns four years old tomorrow so I put together a little slideshow of pictures of him over the past few years. I burned the slideshow and put it in the mail. This is what I found inside my inbox this morning:

What absolute and utter delight! That little face, those silly and kind words. It made my week. I responded to my friend letting her know how glad I was that he enjoyed the video, but more so that she enjoyed it as well. While it was a gift for her son, this was also another hand extended, another small brick put back into the foundation of our friendship. I couldn't be happier.

The next best part of my week was photographing newborn, Jack Michael. At just 8 days old this fine young man slept through the entire session allowing us to pose and repose him. My friend Z was on hand, as this was her new nephew, and I was able to snap a few that included her. Jack could not have been a better baby and it was a perfect session. The images I was able to capture were fantastic and in my opinion, my very best work to date.

My photography website is now completely functional and I have my own domain! I also created a Facebook page on the encouragement of Jack's proud mom. Slowly I'm growing my gig and it's tons of fun.

On the Big Red front: he started his new job, and guess what? It's going so well! We're both relieved and excited for the many opportunities that will be coming his way. Although this new job will include travelling which will take him from me and Olive every now and again, I am completely and fully supportive of this endeavor. He more than deserves his chance to shine and dammit, I believe he'll finally have his moment.

Lastly, and I can't believe I'm listing this last because it's certainly not LEAST - I'm just 0.4 lbs. shy of hitting another weight loss milestone: 25 lbs. I'm pretty sure it's in the bag and hopefully this weekend or early next week, I'll cross that threshold. I feel fabulous, astoundingly phenomenal. My clothes are hanging off me, and I'm able to pull out pieces that had long since been buried at the back of my closet. I'm not quite slinking into the jeans I wore for my bachelorette party, but no doubt, I'll get there.

The life that Big Red and I have created is really coming into its own. We are both collectively and individually hitting our strides; I have great hope that more goodness is just on the horizon.

Cheers.

Nancy, the poet

On Monday, Nancy Krygowski visited with my creative writing students. Nancy and I go back fifteen years. When I was a freshman at the University of Pittsburgh, she was the instructor who taught my freshman level writing course.

I always enjoyed writing, but never took it seriously. It was Nancy who first propelled me to look at my writing in a new light. I thoroughly enjoyed her class, even when I was exhausted from soccer practices. Hers was a class I never skipped. I guess that implies I may have skipped one or two here and there. Perhaps. Let's just say that the classes I may or may not have skipped start with a "B"(iology). Turns out I wasn't pediatrician type material. Oh well. I got over it.

I was lucky enough to have Nancy a second time around for a higher level course, and in terms of my writing, I've never looked back. I've been writing since, and Nancy and I remained friends.  Before I left for graduate school in the Big Apple, Nancy gifted me a ring she always wore; one I coveted dearly. I wear it still. I believe the story behind it has something to do with a flea market purchase in San Francisco many, many years ago. Besides the fact that I love this ring, I love even more who it came from and the story it carries.

Nancy's visit with my students went wonderfully. They asked thoughtful questions and Nancy's uber cool presence even elicited the following response from one young lady: I just want to write all day and be free. Me too kid, me too. Being around what I like to call a real poet (I still have trouble putting myself into that category - it's like I need to have a book published to hold that title), certainly made me want to write more. In fact, after Nancy's visit I opened up a few dusty files for another looksy at some pieces I hadn't touched in a while. The result? A new submission. Chances are the submission will be rejected, but at least the work is out there. Ya ain't gettin' published unless you put yourself out there! That's the truth. It's not like a Hollywood scout looking for talent. Publishers don't roam the streets questioning passersby if they've got good poetry hidden in their bags. At least there aren't any that I'm aware of. If there are, please send them my way, okay? Thanks.

I was grateful to Nancy for taking the time out of her schedule to come and visit my humble little group.
I'm lucky to have such cool friends.

on the rivers

Last night will probably go down as Mom's favorite night here. Big Red's BFF, Josh, has a boat and he was gracious enough to take the three of us out last night. We couldn't have scripted a better evening if we tried. The weather was warm enough that we didn't need sweatshirts, the sun set itself in a bold crimson sky, we could hear and see the Pirates game (PNC Park is right on the river), and the best part? A fireworks show. All seen from the best seats in the house on Josh's boat.

First class, orchestra seating, going down the Allegheny River towards the city skyline. Dig the shoes? Those are a Payless BOGO special circa 2006. I know. You're jealous.

Our pretty little city and one of the river boats.

Josh hit a proverbial home run last night and Mom thanked him profusely. There's something magical about being out on a body of water. Is it because that's where we first started? It feels natural; the quiet bob of the water's life as it crests with breath and falls back into itself. It was a wonderful evening, no doubt. And we have Captain Josh to thank for it.

Found these pics on Mom's camera, and thought I'd add them. The first one is me photographing Daisy, sweating like a hog because it was an inferno upstairs in T's house, and the second one is Mom doing her 'thang. Um, can you tell she's ready to be a grandmother??

More on Mom's trip later.

Tangents, Movie Quotes & Insight

In my last post, I said I was going to wait to see lil' miss Daisy Grace until my mom arrived. Well, I cheated. Sorry, Mom. T said she wouldn't mind the company in the morning, and I was all-about hanging out with a newborn and my friend. So that's what I did this rainy Tuesday morning. Unfortunately T lives sorta out in the cut. Not really, but kinda really. I guess it depends on your perspective. Big Red and I don't live in the city, the city proper that is, but query his family and they'll say we live in the city. I think we live in the suburbs. If we live in the suburbs, then T definitely lives in the cut (Oops on the tangent. WARNING: more ahead.)  Anyhow, I arrived at their charming abode around 9 and stayed until just after 12. Stinking dentist appointment was in the way of a leisurely day spent with two awesome chicks. Although, I'm sure at some point T would have wanted quiet time by herself with the little miss.

Daisy was the picture of perfection, making darling little newborn grunts and coos. T hit the baby jackpot as Daisy only cried when she was hungry. And pretty much, don't we all do about the same thing? I know Big Red turns into a BIG dragon if he doesn't eat. I get a wee bit cranky myself, more light-headed than anything else.You can hardly blame the gal for being a tad fussy.

We had a nice time, chatting about the little miss and life after a baby. T's totally rocking it. She's still the same woman, just with a baby on her lap and bottles in the sink. Okay, and a pack 'n play in the corner of the living room. I drilled her with questions and she was gracious enough to answer them all. I should have apologized in advance for the inquisition, but I didn't, so I'm apologizing now: Dear T, I'm sorry for the billion questions. Big Red calls it being nosy, I call it being inquisitive. I like to know about stuff, a lot of stuff, especially baby stuff. Consider yourself the lead now that you've got one, and me the understudy - hoping to get one. Mea culpa. Your friend. Ilene.

T fed me a brownie and some coffee (probably not the best idea pre-teeth cleaning), and I even left with a few parting gifts: two bambino books (one about getting knocked up, the other about what to do AFTER you've gotten knocked up), and one leftover ClearblueEasy pregnancy test. I won't be needing the pee stick for another year or so, and I did check the expiration date. I should (hope?) be covered.

While I was holding Daisy, my eyes fell upon tarot cards on T's bookshelf. I asked her for a reading. She handed me the deck and allowed me to shuffle and cut the cards. She laid them out and flipped each, one at a time, and we discussed the findings. Now I don't know how you feel about readings and psychics and such, but I find it all fascinating. I wouldn't bet my life on a reading, but I do think they can provide insight if you're in the right frame of mind. Essentially my reading revealed to us that the thing I want is peace and harmony. Peace of mind, peaceful life, a harmonious family that Big Red and I can build together. I need to relax about starting a family and worrying about whether or not it will all fall into place when I want it. I need to simply trust in our love and our life together and allow that to guide us into our harmonious "fall into place" space.

After returning home with super sparkling clean teeth, I opened up the "getting knocked up" read. Much of the information was stuff I'd already heard or read about. Hey, I like to do my homework - don't judge. It's probably still good to have on hand as a reference should I feel the need to go to it. Now the tricky part: let Big Red see my new acquisitions, or not? Kind of a toughie. I'm going to gamble and let him see the loot. What's the sense in hiding these things? He knows BABY is on the radar, and he also knows it's not happening tomorrow (huge EXHALE on his part). What's the harm? I'll let you know how it goes...besides, if the poo hits the fan, I can blame it on T. Ha!

The letting go business, is another story. It will be a challenge as I am such a planner. When I think about having a family I think about what the optimal time would be to do this, given that I'm a teacher, and thus when I'd need/want to get pregnant. While I don't believe it's a crime to plan ahead, I'm well-aware of the trap that planning creates: a fixed now or never mentality. And if it doesn't happen, then stress can ensue thereby creating further obstacles for getting pregnant. So here's my newest goal: learn to let go...ahem, not totally though. I'm not a, "fly by the seat of my pants kind of gal, you know moment to moment..." That's Vivian, not me. And Big Red is definitely not Edward. Although I wouldn't mind the stretch limo and the bouquet of roses, just without having to be a hooker. I mean, what would my principal say? What I can do is my very best to prepare myself for this adventure. Focus on what I can control because "Control is an illusion...Nobody knows what's going to happen next..." I can make healthy choices, exercise, love Big Red, love Olive, and love the home and life we've created.

And until I've got my own, and so long as T allows it, I'll get my baby fix through the little miss:

Movie Quotes:
#1: Pretty Woman
#2: Days of Thunder

book club.

Last night turned out quite enjoyable. And yes, there was wine. And yes, there was a nicely decorated dining room with a table we all sat around. As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I wasn't sure what to expect from this ladies only book club. This month's meeting was held in lovely house in a lovely neighborhood. It's just one neighborhood over from mine, but up a couple of rungs higher on the ladder. The community is tucked away and unless you were going there purposefully, you might never find it. Soon after we arrived, the rest of the women arrived as well. There was a lot of chatter about daily lives and catching up - no mention of the book. The host made some incredibly delicious pizza, and when we inquired about her culinary mastery, she clued us in on her use of Trader Joe's pizza dough. I made a mental note to pick some up on my next trip.

At some point, maybe a few hours in and several bites of food into the evening, we began to discuss the book. It was good conversation and everyone was sincere about listening to the ideas of others. There was a curious moment in our discussion when one of the women made a remark about how irritated she was with the husband in the story.

Quick background: the author, Gretchen Rubin, decides that in her quest to find more happiness, she resolves to tackle a new resolution each month. Rubin is a self-described neurotic, picky, nagging wife. She chronicles her journey for a year, sharing with readers her successes and failures, and what she ultimately learns about happiness, a sort of Wizard of Oz kind of realization - it was always there. 

This woman's observation of the husband caused the rest of us at the table, 3 (the other two were in the kitchen talking about OkCupid, a free dating website), to react pretty strongly. We three had read it the other way around. We thought the husband in the story was a saint for putting up with the author's crazy ways. The book club woman reiterated how annoyed she was when she read that the husband just lay on the bed while the couple's child ran amok. This thread of conversation lead into a discussion about relationships and our expectations.

I once heard someone say of relationships, don't expect, accept. I think there's tremendous value in that kind of recognition when you're involved with someone. Let's face it, few people really ever change. Some may change initially because they're head over heals in love and don't care to rock what yacht they believe they're cruising. Eventually true colors shine through and the genuine man behind the curtain is revealed. The book club woman mentioned that she expects her husband to do certain things, and he complains that her expectations are just too high. We prodded a little further for examples. She cited her husband's inability to recognize a mess and take it upon himself to clean it up. We then asked her - if you asks him, does he then chip in and help? She responded by saying she felt that she shouldn't have to ask. While we agreed with her that this would be nice, it wasn't realistic. Clearly he wasn't as fastidious when it came to tidiness. Another woman, a super cute pregnant woman - you know the kind that looks pulled together and has just a basketball belly? yeah, that kind of cute - chimed in with a great observation: This need for clean was the woman's and she alone needed to own it as hers. By owning this, she had a couple of choices: 1. Just take care of it herself. 2. Be okay with asking him to help. In my book, this observation hit the mark. I also believe there is a line in the sand where this sort of acceptance doesn't work. If Big Red were a heroin addict, there's no way in hell I would casually accept this.

This tangential conversation that was sparked by the book made me realize once again that a story does not exist without readers, that every reader comes to the table with a buffet of life experiences and those experiences invariably color perspective.

We talked about so many things, and the women even inquired about my own life. The didn't recoil at my candor, nor did they at my vernacular. Score. They were all very friendly and quite open, we laughed a ton and didn't leave until 10 pm. I don't know yet what the next book is going to be, there was some talk about it being a "good novel." I hope it's a good one, and I look forward to next month's meeting. Good reads and good conversation = good times.

T's Maternity Photo Shoot

Today we shot T's maternity photos. Because she has a fabulous property, we stayed at the house. She'd already done her research and looked up several ideas. With ideas in hand, we grabbed the camera, a set of pink Chuck Taylor's, daisies (of course!), and a semi-willing husband. We laughed a ton and even T's good sport of a husband smiled a few times. The pictures came out beautifully and we were both so incredibly thrilled about what we had captured. Although there are a ton that I'm in love with, here are a few of my favorites:

Look at how pretty T looks in this picture! It's absolutely stunning.

I can't wait (I suspect neither can T) until Daisy is born. We're already cooking up ideas for her first photo shoot...stay tuned.

fin.

Checkmate.

Yesterday was the final day with students.  We can unofficially close out the 2010-11 school year; unofficial only because my colleagues and I still have to show up to work until June 20th.  I only had one more final to give yesterday, and surprisingly all my students showed up.  I only say this because this particular class, a class I’ve written about before, has had a sketchy attendance record.  There are a few students who pretty much wrapped up their year months ago.  They knew they would be leaving and so made no effort to come to my first period class, and do any work.  Today they showed up.  One got called down to the office for some kind of trouble, another remained in class and took the test, and the last – well, the last one remained physically in my room, but did not take the test.

This particular student just put his head down.  I asked him if he was going to make an attempt at the final, and he said no.  I entered a zero into the grade book, and then exchanged his blank bubble sheet for a Rubik’s Cube.  His face immediately lit up.  I whispered: solve it.

What will happen to him next year?  He’s not returning to our school; his grades just weren’t good enough, and he had become very problematic.  He’s not a bad human by any stretch. My guess is he came to this school severely unprepared for the caliber of work he would be expected to do, and he failed one too many times.  Failing repeatedly would wear on anyone.  We offered him supports, made phone calls home, spoke to him individually and collectively.  There were safety nets all around this kid, but somehow he still found a rip and fell through.  Next year he’ll be in a more traditional setting without the pressures of a rigorous curriculum, no dress code to worry about really, and he’ll be surrounded by more of his friends.  And, he’s got football.  We don’t have sports at our school, and trust me when I say that not having athletic teams has hurt our abilities to create any kind of school spirit.  Kids just attend our school.  They’re not really part of it. Not yet anyhow.  Although I’m not particularly fond of this kid, I do wish him well.  I hope he finds his way somehow, and makes something of himself.

As for the rest of my Goonies, I’m pleased with most of the work they’ve done and the human beings into which they are becoming. There were some glitches and ugly spots along the way, I like some more than I like others, but in the end it’s all good.

This is my second year with these kids.  Next year, I’ll have them all again. And the following year, the year they graduate, I’ll have them for the fourth year in a row.  It’s a unique situation, but one that I love.  In a traditional setting, while I would have gotten to know my students, it would never have been with the depth and breadth that I know this particular group. It’s certainly a unique circumstance, and as of yesterday, we are halfway through their high school careers.  I once had a reflective piece of writing published in a newspaper about how every September I’m a skeptic with my new crop of students.  The new group never seems to measure up to the class from the year before.  It was comfortable with the old class, familiar. What will happen when the class of 2013 says their good-byes? It will be hard to let this group go.  I guess I don't have to worry about that for another two years. This frightens me.

This was also my last year as a traditional English teacher. I honestly can’t say I’m sad about it. Yeah, I know I spent $60k on an MA from NYU in English Education – how can I forget with my nearly $500 student loan payment every month – but what I have realized over the course of these past seven years is that the joy I find in teaching is less about the content and much more about the relationships I create with my students.  In the aforementioned pricey graduate school program I completed, I was adamant about wanting to be an inspiration to my students.  I wanted to be able to inspire them to be greater more open-minded, risk-taking human beings.  I can do that with English, and I can do it just as well with Creative Writing. The beauty in teaching Creative Writing, is that now I’ve gained autonomy over my classroom, and autonomy for this gal, dear readers, is highly valued. I don’t do well in boxes, and I don’t do well with rules.  I also get to become my students’ cheerleader as I help them get into college and figure out possible career paths in the other new course I'm teaching. Next year remains promising...

On a sad note, a colleague is being bounced out of our building and into a less desirable 50/50 split between two schools. The person replacing her has more seniority and was furloughed from another school.  Because she had the more desirable job, staying full-time in one spot, she was the one who lost out. She’ll teach half-time at one middle school, and half-time at another.  She becomes itinerant.  She was nothing but tears yesterday afternoon and I felt deeply for her. Seven years ago, I was in her very same position. I’d been hired as a full-time teacher, it was my very first year, I fell in love with my colleagues, the school where I was working, and just a couple weeks before the end of the year, I was displaced. I was being bumped by a teacher with more seniority returning from a leave of absence. Seven years ago I was all tears.  And I continued to cry for several months afterwards. There’s nothing anyone can say to you at that point, and whatever consoling they attempt, compares nothing to the amount of FUCK-OFFS you want to lay out into the world.  So to this colleague, a young girl, I told her only that I understood and to find a way to get through it. I only offered validation and affirmed that it does suck and yes, it is a shitty situation.

Our little campus is slowly growing, and our learning curve remains steep. We remain a tight-knit staff with plenty of moxie and dedication. I still believe we have the potential for greatness, but it is going to come at a price. This end of the school year somehow has come around in an anticlimactic fashion. It’s just another day – except there are no students. I have discovered new friends (yeah, Z, you totally rock, and yes, forever friends), and have deepened ties with others (P, my barometer, my vault).

Seven years in the books.

I’m still happy I’m a teacher.

And as a gift to myself for the seventh-inning-career stretch, I bought a subscription to The New Yorker. I know, right? Just trying to rev up my sophistication meter, and read good reads. Who knows, maybe someday my words will appear in the magazine...

daisy grace.

T's baby shower was today, and it was nothing short of charming and sweet.  We gathered under a green and white striped tent, sipped lemon iced water out of mason jars, and enjoyed some of the most outstanding weather we've had to date. T was more than showered with plenty of loot and love. When little Miss Daisy Grace makes her appearance later this summer, she will do so with a closet full of adorable dresses, and pink Chuck Taylor's, no less. 

Yours truly was designated photographer for the event. T allowed me to borrow her super galactic awesome camera, a Nikon D3000. I may have to pretend like I gave it back to her and keep it for myself - think she'll miss it? Here are just a few of the pics I snapped and then edited in Photoshop...