New blogs

Baby Jack has a new blog:
Come and visit the Bug Barn: A blog exclusively for and about Jack and Jack's mom.

Also visit Ginger's new space: De-Composition.

With my apologies for any and all setting changes..

Baby Jack!

Baby Jack is here!!!! and is completely adorable if I do say so myself. 7 lbs; 7ounces; at 7:00 am on his due date.. (miracle!) Mom and Baby are fine. Rich on the other hand.. :)
Stay tuned for pictures and information on new blog sites!

Am thinking about ditching the Viaggio for newer, better journeys.
This place seems a bit stale, no matter how I change the font and colors and pictures. Plus, there is so much change around me, and, as odd as it may sound, because the change is affecting mostly everything in my life, I think I want to embrace it as much as I can, blog notwithstanding.

A new place to hang out might be just the thing I need to scratch that 5 year itch.. And I am happy thinking about the limitless possibilities!!

I'll definitely keep my Flickr account so that you can see the baby, if he ever gets here, that is. In the mean time, I'll be over here dreaming.. :)

Conversation

Three very pregnant women stand in a circle in a public place, bellies almost touching. Whispering.

Preggo 1 (to others): When are you due?

Preggo 2: In a month.

Preggo 3: A month after her.

P1: Oh really? I'm due on Wednesday. (Internal grin, obviously trying not to show it outwardly.)

P2 and P3: Oh Wow. You're lucky. (Maniacally glancing back and forth) You don't even look like he's dropped, yet.

P1: Yeah. Doc says he may not, until the last minute, anyway.

P2: Well, I want this baby born already.

P1: And how. (fidgeting)

P3: You know, I heard that there are (ahem) ways to make that happen more quickly.

P2: Yeah. Like walking the mall or doing tribal Indian dances.. Squats.

P1: I heard spicy Mexican food is also a trigger.

P2: And (glancing around nervously) (barely audible) sex.

P3: Oh hell no. Get that the hell away from me.

P2: Yeah. That's not cool.

P1: (sweating, trying not to sound inauthentic) Yeah. Uh. What you said..(overcompensating) We hate men.. and their...that.. um.. act.

(awkward silence)

P2 and P3 (in mumbled, jumbled voices): OK. Better go.. things to do.. baby stuff.. diapers.

Preggo 2 and 3 scatter in opposite directions.

Preggo 1 stands stoic - a little proud, a little smug, wondering if after lunch at Abuelos if she should tribally ask the gods for rain, etc..

Shake and Take - and I Heyulpt!

I got pinned yesterday AND I was recognized for ten years of excellent service. ya-yuh!

(wink)

Ok. So, what it really means is I've been officially teaching in my school district for 10 years. I am a 10 year veteran. I have been out of college, contributing to my retirement plan, paying taxes, and functioning as a productive, responsible member in grown-up society for 10...freaking...pantyhose wearing...paying-a-mortgage... years.

10. !

But 10 minutes after they presented me with my 10 year award (shake and take, then smile for the camera), I was participating in a little jackholery and lost my pin.. Literally. It's gone. I can't find it. Buh-bye.

And I'm sort of relieved about that.

Still irresponsible. Still a kid.

Updates

Life is changing very quickly lately, and I've been coping by ignoring that it's happening. Healthy, right?

Anyway, maybe if I catch a few of the curve balls hurled at me and lob them in your direction (sorry if I throw like a girl), I'll be able to dig my way out of the dug out.**

Here goes:
1. The new principal for my school (i.e. my new boss) will be announced tonight at the school board meeting. I will not be attending in person so I made a cardboard cutout of my face and taped it to a ruler (a convenient handle) for Fougs to hold up at the meeting. That way I can be there in spirit and support the person who has been appointed (unless God truly does hate me and the position is given to someone else). You think I'm kidding - about the cardboard Ginger head. I'm most certainly not. (I'll be pissed if you forget me at school, Fougs. I must be there in spirit! And a cardboard cutout of my face (which I carefully crafted using a mirror and my best markers) apparently represents my spirit these days.. so sayeth the preggo, and so it goes.)

2. I cut my hair.. short. Really short. Shorter than I've ever cut it. Or really, a stylist cut it. I just sat there. And she dyed it. Yes. I am pregnant and I dyed my hair which, if I may remind you, is way better than doing heroin. BUT it looks a lot better than it has for the last several months and I'm pretending that all of that mousy, excess hair is what was weighing me down. When I got home I sifted through my closet, through all of the clothes I could wear a year ago, until I got to the shoe pile. I located my rockin' stilettos - you know, the ones that got me into this mess - and blew the dust off of them. I thought they would be perfect to wear with my new do, and then I remembered, "Oh yeah. Pregnant..doomed."

3. I'm so sick of the word "pregnant". Give me my life back!!!
If the baby does not come by the 11th I will be induced on the 17th, at which time, Jack will receive his first grounding for not coming home on time. We don't play. Mess with the bull and you get the horns. You know what I'm sayin'?
Are you even listening, Jack?

4. Today was the last day of school. As always, I am relieved and sad and ecstatic all in one gut-filling yarn ball. I haven't let myself think about it too much because I really will miss several of my students, especially those I've had in class for the last 2 years (my IBers - not the delinquents.. Well hell. I'll miss my little delinquents, too). Ick.

**Using a baseball metaphor makes me want hot dogs.....and pie. Mmmm. Churros! And what the hell? My sport is hockey! Congrats to the Red Wings. Y'all are a hell of a team.. a hell of a Scandinavian team with all your red beards and pasty skin! But a hell of a team none-the-less.

Backstreet Birdie

My sis-to-be Sarah sent this for a laugh. I like it because it makes everyone watching bob their heads, too. Mimicking a parrot is funny AND ironic.
Rich especially appreciates the headbanging at the end since for him getting through the Backstreet part was a bit painful..
Enjoy!

Not sure how I feel about...

1. the fact that I am supposed to get up and get ready for work in 3 hours and I can't make myself sleep.

2. the fact that I am so worried about why the baby is moving so much - more than he has in a while - that I can't sleep.

3. the fact that I couldn't support two of my friends yesterday: one because she was wrong and was unfair/unreasonable, the other because I am too tired to fight with or for anyone lately.

4. the fact that I really want to participate in all of the wonderful celebrations that are happening around me (graduation, vespers, retirement parties, getting coffee with my good friend) but I am unable because my body won't allow it.

5. the fact that I can't make myself pick up the ringing phone because I know the line is filled with people who want to know the status of the pregnancy and, because it's all I think about, I don't want to talk about it for fear of what reaction I'll receive.

6. the fact that I don't automatically have that female intuition regarding taking care of children; I have to work at seeing parenthood as a new, wonderful experience and not a binding, stagnant one.

7. the fact that I haven't "stayed" in the same place for more than 5 years in a row in the last 15 years, and I am feeling an incredible itch to move - houses, jobs, continents, whatever.

8. the fact that I really don't like (and haven't liked) being pregnant, mostly because it makes me need people and even though I love people, I am bad at letting myself need them.. what if they don't need me in return?

9. the fact that I place (most of my) self worth on being needed/wanted.

10. the fact that I have started to notice that whenever anything is difficult, stressful, or painful, I catch myself holding my breath - and justify it.

Edge TV-Edge Gel Girls

OK. Um. Yeah. What exactly is the advertising angle here? I mean I know about the first part, that it is every straight guy's dream to have gorgeous women fight a "shaving cream war" on his "stubble", but what's the deal with the second part -the green, wanton, rocket girls who apparently carry a scent that is appealing to men, so that they can be appealing to women. How is that part attractive to either sex?

But I suppose the ad does "get a man going."

Exactly where he is going is still questionable. If a man told me that he had a fantasy about women rocketing up his nose for an erotic nose disco, I believe my answer to the question of where he is going has to be, "I don't care where you go, but get your schnoz the hell away from me," followed by, "The answer to going up your nose in any way or form is and always will be no! I'm definitely not into that."

Bizarre.

IB, UB, WeB Finished!!!

Two years ago, the Fougs forced me to do something I adamantly did NOT want to do. Because I love her, I eventually gave in. I'm talking about teaching IB(International Baccalaureate).

Folks compare IB to Advanced Placement, the difference being that in AP, the students get to choose to take AP English, history, psychology, chemistry, or whatever course at which they excel. IB students have to take ALL advanced core courses - in all areas - even in their weak subjects. The really awesome AP students generally take 4 or 5 AP tests at the end of the course. Most opt to take 1 or 2. IB students sit for 14 or more exams (lasting anywhere from 1-3.5 hours each), plus orals, plus an extended essay (similar to a Masters thesis), and they have to complete 150 community service hours (CAS). The exams are mostly essays and short answer, including the math ones. Oh, AND they may choose to take the AP exams as well. My students had 3 straight weeks of IB testing. (!)

Needless to say, IB is an incredibly difficult programme, but just being a candidate for the IB diploma is an automatic entrance to the honors college at several universities. Many of my kids have awesome scholarships AND they have the opportunity to go to school anywhere in the world. All of this if offered even before the exam scores come back (Their tests are marked all over the world! For my class, one paper was sent to the UK, the other to Brazil).

Basically my students are amazing for even trying, but I also have to give props to the teachers. The diploma program is two years worth of curriculum, and we've had to step-up our teaching methods, reinvent wheels, and learn, along with the students, how to survive the IB. I am ecstatic to report that our first group of 21 guinea pigs is finally done with exams. We won't know their scores until July 6th, but we had our celebration for them Friday night where they received their IB stoles for graduation.

My students made a confessional video about surviving the IB experience (shown to all who attended the celebration, including the principal, parents, and members of the school board). You may view it (hopefully) at the end of this post. It is 8 minutes long and is edited poorly (sorry it was my first attempt at movie making), but shows the caliber of student that we had.. and it shows that they are still goofy kids.

Thanks for making me teach IB, Fougs! It was so worth all of the blood sweat and tears.

I hear God laughing

Is it wrong to give your unborn child an eviction notice? Seriously. I wrote it on a post-it note and stuck it under my clothes today..

in case Jack's a genius and can already read..

using his x-ray vision.

On a conflicting note, it turns out that it is for the best that Jack isn't here yet since missing work right now is not really an option. People say that someone will surely pick up the slack for me and that the kids will be OK, and that may be true to an extent.. but what about the seniors who are on the borderline who need to turn in extra credit work to graduate, or the hundreds of dollars (from the recent litmag sales) the litmaggers are turning in that I am directly responsible for? What about the exams? Grading the exams (especially those that are essays)? Make-up work? Novel and textbook returns?

The bottom line is teachers can't miss work, especially at this point in the year.
And how silly of me to think I could actually let go of some of my responsiblities to, I don't know, GIVE BIRTH!

Maybe I should hang on to the eviction sticky-notice until next week. I suppose it was a long shot that Jack would mind it anyway.. Plus the hospital bags are packed and ready which means that Jack will probably hang out another week or two. We made a plan therefore God thinks we're hilarious.

We'll see what the doc says tomorrow.

Memorial Lite

It is Memorial Day, a day on which all of us are asked to pause and reflect upon all of our fallen heroes, the ones who fought and died making this country what it is today.

As with nearly every holiday in this country, this one has been commercialized to death (both literally and figuratively speaking) and has become more about a free day from work, eating (especially anything that you can grill..on a stick), major store-wide clearance sales, and of course movie hopping. In short, unless you are one of the most devout who actually takes a moment (at 3:00 pm, specifically) to remove your hat and put your hand over your heart, you might observe that Memorial Day has become 4th of July lite.

The interesting thing is I think this is OK.* Let me explain:

It is an honor to the fallen that we do get to do all of those flippant, flibberdegibbit things: movies and sales and homemade ice-cream and such. In other words, because we really don't have to worry about our security on a day to day basis, the fact that we get to spend our money on entertainment and travel, the idea that we actually want to hang out with friends and family and feast or throw Frisbees is a true testament to the soldiers' work.

But before I ask you to stand and salute a sparkling, blinking "God Bless America" singing American flag icon here on this blog, I should make it clear that though I do appreciate the soldiers themselves (and teach many of them who choose to 'join-up' at the tender age of 17), I still stand firm in that I do not agree with, nor am I an advocate of the current war mongering/bullying politics that put them in harms way. And I get to write these words without a whole lot of ridicule because I live in a country where, though its not really regarded seriously or at all, I do get to voice a differing opinion without worry.. within certain parameters, of course.. (enthusiastically waving at the camera) Hi Big Brother!!

(a whole new topic for a different post)

Anyway, Happy Memorial Day! May your burgers be juicy, may your beer be cold, and may you enjoy the new Indiana Jones movies as much as I did! :)


*I know! It's not my usual rant on consumerism and the evil capitalists! I have this vision of you guys stepping outside, shading your eyes, and looking around for flying pigs.. Whatever.

Pregasaurus Rex

I've hit the stage in my pregnancy where people no longer address me directly or ask me questions that are personal or relevant or whatever. They simply point at my belly with horrendous looks on their faces.

I'm not kidding.

Well, OK. One lady stopped me in the hall and put her finger in her cheek to make a loud popping sound. That's not exactly pointing, but I must have looked confused (and to be fair, I was sort of - in an 'oh no you didn't just do that' sort of way) because she did it again AND THEN she pointed at my belly. She said (and I quote), "That's what you look like."

I said, "I look like a popping sound?"

And she said, "Yes. You look like you're about to pop...(awkward pause)... in a cute way."

The good news is I visited the doctor today and she says that I've already completed the beginning stages of labor. I won't go into too much detail, mostly because using terms like 'mucus plugs,' 'effacement' and 'dilation' is a turn off to some, except to say that she also said she would be surprised if I made it to my due date.

In your face, pointing, popping bastards!!

I don't really know how that's a burn to them, but I feel pretty good about the prognosis, so soon there will be no more shenanigans from them! Soon I will only have to worry about all the lovelies who think it's OK to commentate on my parenting skills.

Nice.

Anyway, come on Baby Jack. We're ready!!

Or Press the Panic Button

So yesterday in my first period English IV class I was describing the wacky world of misplaced modifiers when all of a sudden a hushed hub-bub broke out in the back of the room among those who are generally more loud and animated. I could distinguish few words and was fairly confident that they weren't concerned about the canyon being 10 miles deep (as opposed to the winding path, like the example indicated), but I did recognize the words "Ms." and "Haag" among the frantic whispers.

I asked them what was going on, and they all stopped and stared at me. Finally, the bravest kid in the back of the room, the one who is not shy about discussing any topic broke the silence by sheepishly asking,

"What happens if your water breaks in our class?"

Silence again.

I looked intently at all of them, trying to decide how I was going to respond to them, to this question that they were seriously concerned about. Out of my mouth came,

"Well. I guess the front row will get wet."

The class, responding as one, took in a huge breath of air and squealed, "Ewwwwwwwwwwww!" Then came a chaotic blend of amused voices that shrieked, "Oh my god!" and "Noooo!" and "Get it off of me!"

When the laughter finally died down, I did explain to them that probably nothing would happen if my water broke in their class, that more than likely I would walk out of the room calmly and that they wouldn't notice anything was amiss until a substitute walked in. I explained that nothing would "explode" or "spray" or "pop" and that I was sorry to disappoint them, but even if my water does break or if I do go into labor, I would more than likely walk calmly out of the room. I would probably NOT give birth in front of them, and that Junior, the kid who sits front and center, would not be in charge of finding towels.

The weird thing is, they weren't really relieved. They actually were disappointed. They explained that it's not because they want me to go into labor in front of them, but they recently realized that they wouldn't even get to meet Jack. They compared their situation to watching a movie that they were really interested in, and then having someone turn it off right before the exciting ending. "Sorry, you don't get to see what happens next, even though you've invested a lot time here. Too bad, so sad."

They're right. They are seniors which means they won't be back next year. They won't get to see Jack, even though they've thrown baby showers, suggested names, and cleared the halls for their poor, pregnant teacher. They've dealt with the wacko hormones and have tolerated all of my moans and groans. They know I probably won't see them walk the stage or go to their prom, even though they are eager to share these moments with me.

I didn't realize until this silly conversation that this is the end of the year and, more than ever, there is a reason to feel nostalgic. It was sort of a bitter sweet moment..

And then I told 4th period this story and they responded by shrugging and declaring,

"Oh, we already decided that if you go into labor in our class, we'll just press the panic button.."

Things I Learned at the Faculty "Talent" Show

Last night I decided to accompany Rich to his school's faculty talent show. Let's be crystal clear here: Rich is a teacher at a JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL, one that I literally ran screaming from, clutching the only thread of sanity that was left in my feeble, nerve wracked (and Prozac influenced) psyche. I once swore that I would never set foot into that building ever again, and if I absolutely had to, I would be uber sneaky, stealthy even- complete with back against the walls maneuvers, forward rolls into shadows, and possibly dawning a ski mask- in order to avoid the sheer panic of having to pretend to be nice to a person who, at the time, emotionally strangled me. Plus, I figured the building itself was poison.

So, last night I decided to go to the talent show there. Why? Because I am a moron. And because I never get to see Rich - the husband who works three jobs to make sure we can afford daycare AND diapers- and I wanted to support him since he is constantly helping me at my school. He was not performing this time - thank God!*- and we were simply going as spectators. Five glorious years have passed since I worked there, and, anyway, I had been practicing my forward rolls, though this is extremely difficult (and not recommended) for pregnant women.. I figured I could take it.

You have to understand that there are dear, dear folks who are trapped work at Rich's school. These people are like family to us because in order to survive, we formed clans as coping mechanisms. It's akin to being in the military - you are especially close to your squad since you and "your brothers" have gone through and seen things that no one will ever understand unless you've been in the trenches together. A bond is formed. And whenever you bump into these people in "the real world," you run to them with your arms open, even if the only thing you have in common is that war-time experience.

OK. It sounds like I'm exaggerating, and I admit that my metaphor is extended far beyond the necessary boundary, but you get what I mean.

Anyway, I went to the talent show (sans ski mask, but only because Rich made me leave it in the car). I saw my squad and greeted them with kisses and hugs (and belly rubs - their hands, my belly for clarification). We held hands, even, and touched up each other's war paint. That was nice and needed.

I also saw her: the person who was so mean and heartless to me that I ran from the building screaming... (as described before)... into the arms of a new job that I absolutely ADORE. I was, as usual, completely insincere with her, our fake smiles and disingenuous conversation. Ick. I still feel smarmy. But I survived the encounter one more time, a feat that takes amazing talent, or possibly a course or two in car salesmanship or Western politics..

But overall I was actually glad to go. (Don't tell Rich.. ) And the actual talent show? There wasn't much to say about that, except that whoever actually invented amateur talent shows, especially ones at church camps and junior high schools, needs to be severely flogged - repeatedly - during the (never ending) lip sync act(s) or, even better, as the finale. In comparison, though, this is a non-issue.

* Someday ask me about the infamous night in an Edinburgh hostel and our encounters with Johnny Cash and Jimmy Buffett. Or maybe not.

Manicured Spirit

Today I went to have a mani pedi. I am not usually the type of girl who gets mani pedis; I'm usually the one climbing the tree in front of the salon. My cuticles are never trimmed, unless you count chewing them until they bleed as trimming. My nails are usually fairly clean and clipped, but they are rarely what would would call "manicured".

Sometimes I try to paint my toe nails, but usually I make such a mess of them that I let the paint dry and then take a bath so that I can scrub the excess paint off of my cuticles, my toe knuckles, my elbow, the counter top..

Anyway, I have reached the stage of my pregnancy where I can no longer bend down and clip my toenails. I've also reached the stage where my my feet do not fit in my shoes due to the edema. That means that I am wearing flip flops with my dress pants, and sometimes house shoes. Classy. Especially since my feet look like they belong in the Shire. That's why I decided to get a pedicure and then thought, "why not get the manicure, too?"

And that's what I did.

I went to the little hole-in-the-wall nail salon in my community. Oddly, you know the one I'm talking about; we all have ones that are fairly identical. The ladies were so adorable, and I could tell that they were related. They hardly spoke any English but we were able to converse enough to exchange the basics: that I would like to have the mani-pedi special with the Brisbane Bronze polish; that the baby is due in June; that it is a boy; that they have one boy, almost a year old, born a month early; and yes, they could sell me the bottle of bronze nail polish for touch-ups (not that I can actually bend over to touch-up).

While they worked on me, I glanced around the room: Barbara Walters was on the Oprah show which was on a tiny TV in the background. I listened to the Korean being spoken barely above a whisper back and forth across the room, and I wondered how it is that women, no matter what culture they hail from or what circumstance they are in, tend to make community with each other. Not only do we ask questions out of genuine concern or share our own experiences, especially when talking about babies, but it occurred to me today that we can be especially vulnerable with each other. One of the women was clipping and tending to my abused, tom-boyish hands while her mother was giving my swollen hobbit feet an extra long massage before she tried to make them presentable.

They were both extremely concerned about my comfort level, not because I was a patron or because they were hoping for a tip, but because they know what it is like to be 35 weeks pregnant. When it was difficult for me to lift my feet out of the water onto the work station, the mother grinned empathetically at me. I looked over at her daughter, the one who has a one year old son, who also was grinning. Then I grinned. In that moment, I became their sister which is part of that elusive connection with "the goddess" that I really had hoped to experience with this pregnancy.

I think the connection among women is a special type of connection that men perhaps only experience peripherally, if at all. Or maybe in our culture it isn't OK for them to acknowledge their connections. But for women, these ties are tribal and certainly go against the idea that Americans are too autonomous for communitas (the spirit of community).

It was nice to be vulnerable with these women. It was nice to be pampered. Maybe I'll try this whole mani pedi thing again someday.

Feminist Fuck-up

So, I think the feminists fucked things up for us. What were they thinking when they decided that women shouldn't be hidden away from society's judgemental eyes the very second they showed even a hint of being knocked-up? No wait, I think the correct term is (whispered) "p.g."

Seriously. Until Rosy the Riveter stepped in, women got to go home to their sanctuaries of solitude where they could lounge around all day in dressing gowns and indulge in their cravings without the glaring eye of those who would tell them things like, "That much chocolate is unhealthy for babies, " or, "Spread some peanut butter and cheese on that cinnamon bun. You need more protein," OR the ever popular, "Wow. You're huge!" Even when people are presumably being nice, it's still them making a judgement about my body. For example they say, "You're how far along? Geez. You're really small for being that far along," comments that sound sort of nice, but that leave one silently concerned.

And for the most part, I grin to myself about the comments. I even laugh out loud sometimes... later.

Also, though, being as pregnant as I am is seen as an invitation for the masses to come and ask me the most personal, intimate questions that would otherwise be NONE of their business. For example, "Were you trying to get pregnant? If so, how long did it take?"

How can I possibly answer that?

"Well, the condom broke sometime within the first 20 minutes or so.." or " I think it took five minutes, but I've seen him do better," or, "Actually, an angel spoke to me in a dream and when I woke up, I knew something was different.."

And my belly is a magnet for lonely people. Oddly, I'm OK with that. I don't mind when people want to share their lives: how many kids and grandkids they have, and how often they see them. I've realized lately how extremely lucky I am to have friends I can confide in, so that I don't feel the need to walk up to strangers and address their private parts.

All of this would be so much easier if I didn't struggle with my self-image as much as I do. I am one who is constantly concerned about what fits, what can be disguised, and what can be improved. I'm like that with my brain, too. I've always been that way. I'm not one of those women who feels beautiful when pregnant. I feel more like a circus tent, a science experiment, the blueberry girl in Willy Wonka..

And how disappointing. I really wanted to be the goddess, the Womyn who is creating life, harboring some ancient, secret mystery of the universe. I wanted to stomp the earth and feel that mysterious connection to all of those who are Gaea incarnate.

But I'm not even close to understanding the goddess. I'm Ginger Moth - the girl who is glad to be able to fly, but who is secretly jealous of the butterfly - working at not complaining that my ankles are swollen or that I can't breathe anymore - working at getting up everyday to go to work, even though all I want to do is stay home and spread peanut butter on my cinnamon bun.

Letters for April 8: Willie

Hey Willie,
Happy Birthday, man! I'm still trying to get to one of your picnics. I hope to see you soon.
Love, Ginger

Letters for April 7: Read this!!

To whom this should concern,
(read: to all of you!)

Recently, I have had to do a lot of "correcting" in my classroom regarding insensitive racist/sexist/intolerant statements. For example, and this may offend some of you, I am hearing statements like this:

"Oh my God, that kid is such a Jew!"
For those of you who are not in the know, this is not a flattering statement and is akin to saying, "Oh my God, that kid is such an asshole!"
And the horrible part is that the kid thinks that he is being polite in using the word "Jew" instead of "asshole".

Or, "Dude don't be such a Mexican" which the kids use to mean, "Stop being lazy."

Another one I hear frequently is, "That's so gay!", meaning "That's so stupid!"

And most of us have heard, "Stop being such a girl! Suck it up."

I realize that name calling and statements like these have been thrown around since puberty hit the very first clan, for the very first time. In fact commercials satirize this sort of intolerance with statements such as, "Even a caveman can do it." People use demeaning statements to sound funny or to be clever. But this is the sort of thing I have to police in my classroom, and someday I'll lose my job for it.

For example, the other day a student yelled across the room that one of his friends was "such a stupid Jew" because the friend didn't give him any gas money, even though "he KNEW" that his friend had some money on him. I, having a short fuse that morning, confronted the kid and asked, "Do you hear what you are saying? I can't believe how racist and offensive what you are saying is!"

The kid laughed.

That put me over the edge. I said, "You know what? What you are saying is exactly the same thing as me saying, 'You are such a Christian! I can't believe how hypocritical and small minded you are! Stupid Christian!'"

The classroom became deathly quiet.

I followed by explaining that of course I don't really think that all Christians are small minded and hypocritical. But the kids needed to be jolted into reality; they need to understand exactly what they are saying.

In another instance, I had a kid raise her hand to tell me that 1984 oppressive society was exactly like all Muslim societies and used a television program she watched as her example. She told me how ALL Muslims stone women who are raped. I initially began by stating that she needed to be careful with absolutes, that ALL Muslims do not think it's OK to stone women who have been raped, and that the ones who do are not part of mainstream Islam. She argued that I was wrong. In the show she watched, it didn't matter if they were in Pakistan, Iraq, or Afghanistan, that all raped or unfaithful women in those countries were stoned to death after they were tortured, that it was in "the Muslim bible" and that it was law in the Middle East.

I took a deep breath, not knowing where to begin and knowing that I had at least one Muslim in that class. I started with, "What you are saying is something like, "All Mormons are polygamists" or "All Christians stone prostitutes or unfaithful wives because that is one of the "laws" in the Christian bible." And the fact is, it is in the Bible. I explained that all religions have factions that do not make the majority proud but that we know that the ones who actually DO these horrible things are fanatics or extremists, not the majority, and this is true of this particular stereotype. I decided that I didn't have the time or knowledge to get into Middle Eastern politics, especially regarding Taliban type dogma versus the faithful majority.

Another day, to supplement my satire unit, I brought in a hilarious David Sedaris reflection about how silly it is that we give human qualities to our pets, and when the kids (especially the boys) realized that Sedaris is gay, they refused to read the piece and dismissed it as "gay" and therefore, irrelevant and wrong. They weren't going to read, "some dumb, gay story."

It worries me that people are not talking to their kids about things like this, but the problem is I assume that parents know better or that they are teaching their kids that racism/sexism is wrong. The fact is, parents are teaching their kids the opposite, even if it is by simply not addressing statements/generalizations being made in their own households. I can't believe how much hate of "other" is fostered AND nurtured in our kids.

Mostly, it makes me sad.

I say this knowing that I have said/do say/will say some pretty offensive things without realizing what I am saying. I will probably never halt the sarcasm parade that is constantly tramping through my brain. But I am asking for some mindfulness here.

Please help.
Thanks,
Ginger

Letters for April 6: Principals

Hi Friends!

I need your input. Sadly my amazing boss, Mr. A, has decided to retire. That means (sniff) that our school needs a new principal!

In order to pick the best person for the job, the committee that was elected to conduct interviews has sent out a questionnaire to help them ask the right questions. I think these questions are valid, no matter where you live or what your job is. Education is important to all of us.

Here are three of the questions:

1. What are your educational concerns? (in society, in public schools? in your own household?)
2. Which areas (TAKS (or state testing), curriculum, discipline, budget, etc.) should a principal emphasize?
3. What is the most important quality in a principal?

Any help would be greatly appreciated!
Thanks,
Ginger

Letters for April 5: Baby Jack

Dear Jack,

This will be the first of many letters I write to you, I'm certain. In fact, I've been meaning to write you a letter since you came to be.

When I think about all of the things I want to say to you, I get completely overwhelmed, and end up all misty-eyed (and lame). And I'm sure there will be those moments amidst the, "You did what!!???"'s and the "How much is it gonna cost?"'s. But we have to start somewhere, right?

So, here goes.

I will begin by telling you I love you. I really, REALLY, gut crunching love you, and am so glad you are here.. er. are about to be here. But whatever, you are already here to me (especially at 1:00 in the morning when I am trying to sleep - thanks for those reminders..). And the fact that I love you is all it will ever come back to in the end.

I could end the letter here and it would be sufficient, for the rest of your life, but I have some other things on my list to talk to you about. We'll call them reminders (as opposed to rules which lend themselves to certain rebellion, especially if you are anything like your dad..). Here are the first 5:

1. Love... Just love. That's #1.

2. Have compassion - We are going to work on this together by being involved in our community, wherever that community may be.

3. Be respectful - of people, of your environment... of your parents.

4. You have the (un)fortunate honor of being a kid of two school teachers. That means we think book learnin' is pretty important. You will do your homework. You will be read to and you will read to us. We hope to instill in you a wonder for the world and all things in it, especially since we are continually being gobsmacked by what there is to know.

5. See the world. People continually tell me that I will never travel again because you are going to keep us pretty busy. I just tell them that you'll be a kid with a passport. The most well rounded kids I know are those who see that the world is bigger than their backyards. I hope that you get to be one of them.

So, those are the first 5.. until I think of other things to add to the list.

I also wanted to mention that you must take a shower when I ask you to (boys are gross!), and you must not climb on the roof just to jump off of it. But I think I'll save those tips for the book I am writing called, Jack's Survival Tips: Things that will keep your momma sane whilst lengthening your life expectancy, both literally and figuratively, at the same time.

It's a working title.

Anyway Jack, I'll see you in a month and a half or so.

I love you and there are already tons of folks here who are ready to love you, too. You're a lucky boy!

Momma

Letters for April 4: Moth Girl

Dear Moth Girl,

Don't worry.

You will not be lost, and what makes you you will also not be lost. Remember, change happens to be born often here and quickly too; you will labor through it: exhaling uncertains and gasping for newness, appreciative of the water, though (knowing you) keeping one eye focused on the distant, solid ground. In the end, you may even take flight! But you won't know until Outcome reveals herself.

Try to be mindful, no matter what happens. Even if the form of you becomes the unrecognizable, glaring back at you in the mirror (as sometimes happens to the best of us); even then, you - who has the potential to recall the fragrance of the timeless lotus flower- will remain familiar and recognizable to those who love you.

So, don't worry.

Change is.

In Egypt, I loved the perfume of the lotus. A flower would bloom in the pool at dawn, filling the entire garden with a blue musk so powerful it seemed that even the fish and ducks would swoon. By night, the flower might wither, but the perfume lasted. Fainter and fainter, but never quite gone. Even many days later, the lotus remained in the garden. Months would pass and a [moth] would alight near the spot where the lotus had bloomed, and its essence was released again, momentary but undeniable.

(from The Red Tent by Anita Diamant)

Letters for April 3: Arboretum

April 13, 2008

To: Groundskeepers and Maintenance at the Metroplex Arboretum
From: Moth Girl
Re: Dallas Blooms

To whom it may concern,

First of all, I would like to begin by saying thank you for providing us with such a wonderful experience in the arboretum yesterday. The weather was gorgeous (though I know I can actually thank April for that one) and the flowers and greens were superb!

I only have one gripe. At an establishment such as yours, I feel that it is absolutely important to see sights such as these:

And not ones such as this:






















It only confuses things for those of us who are not fauna-savvy.

Thanks for your attention to the matter.
Sincerely,
Mothy
P.S. To see other appropriate pictures of the day, go here.

Letters for April 2: Dr. King

Dear Dr. King,

It's happening. You said, "I have a dream that one day... the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood" in that speech you made on the steps of the Lincoln memorial on August 28, 1963, and I wanted to let you know that 45 years later it is finally happening thanks to David A. Wilson (son of former slaves) and David B. Wilson (son of former slave owners).

Though things are still very rocky, as they would be with anyone who hasn't communicated in 45 years, especially about a subject that is still so terribly sore, I think that your heart would be warmed at the effort. Thanks to David A. and his documentary called Meeting David Wilson, our country is beginning to have genuine dialogue - without argument and confrontation - about slavery, racism, the condition of our education system with regards to these, and the issues that still fuel the white supremacy mindset (and the results of that mindset in the black community).

In November we have the opportunity to elect a president who is mixed - both black and white. Of course, I'm talking about Barack Obama who happens to speak with a similar inspirational style that you practiced while you were with us. He too is hoping for change in our country. People say that Obama is the man who "transcends race," a statement that I find particularly odd because race shouldn't be something to transcend. It is merely something that is. There is no need to be colorblind, rather we must be colorloving. Let's look at color in all of its beauty and ugliness - both black AND white and all the shades in between and beyond.

Anyway, I hope David A. Wilson's documentary finds its way into as many homes and classrooms as possible. It is important and moving. It is another step in the march that you began, Mr. King.



Sincerely,
Ginger

Letters for April 1: April

According to Mrs. Kennedy and the blog-savvy multitude, April is the NabloPoMo for writing letters. All of my April posts are supposed to be in letter form. Back in March, I thought to myself, "Cool!" I was determined to join the fun and allow myself a creative repose away from the stifling business that is my life. And now my reaction is "Damn-it!" I totally forgot.

So, I will now begin writing my posts in letter form and will continue to do this for the rest of April, my hand red from the slapping (for being so forgetful of something I want to do), my fingers and brain determined to play catch-up with the rest of you "on-the ball" April letter writers.

Here goes:

Dear Month of April,

Though I do believe your intentions are semi-noble, you have to know that the weather you invite is like an imposing boyfriend that all of your girlfriends can't stand, one who is constantly breaking the harmony of the day by sending constant text messages and warnings to you, interrupting a girls day out, whilst rudely consuming all of the food in your fridge since he wasn't invited to lunch and is now pissed - sure, it's the food that you can't have anyway because you might have gestational diabetes, but you get the idea. Seriously, there is absolutely no need to spin five freaking tornadoes across the Metroplex, especially in conjunction with straight line winds strong enough to do even more damage than the FIVE twisters. Waking up at three in the morning to sirens and, lets face it, what sounds like the premature guffaw of Armageddon, is neither fun nor awe-inspiring. It simply sucks. And is scary.

And it's not just about two nights ago, April. I remember several years ago when you were this showy and turned airplanes upside down so that they looked like dead birds, their little twig legs belly up. That was the time you made me take to the bottle and hide in the hallway in someone else's home, during which time you made me light a poor little dog on fire (Sorry Bitsy Boo - thank God you're resilient!). But whatever. You drove me to it, April. Or rather your nasty house guest did.

But then again, maybe your squallish friend comes over uninvited. In that case, I apologize for my harsh tone and would like to thank you for the gorgeous flowers and for the promise that sanity and stability, in true summer form, are on the way.

OK then. I have to go and get ready for the day. What should I wear? Something warm or something light?

Oh! (wagging my finger in your direction) You got me again, you tricky vamp!

Ginger

Pregnant Words

Do you ever have so many things to say that your brain breaks down and the cat gets your tongue? I feel that way about writing here sometimes. Sentences feel very heavy to me these days.. almost as heavy as my pregnant body. More so maybe.

But here are a few updates (in short, lighter fragments):

1. Friends Amanda and Pat threw a great party for Jack on Saturday! We are very lucky to have such generous friends and family! Thanks everyone! And thank you especially to those who came from such far places to celebrate the day! You guys are amazing! Jack's community will be very solid, indeed.

2. Work is v. busy at the mo. Lots to grade and study and do. But I can see the end.. I hope I'm ready for it seeing as the end of school is also the beginning of Jack and the reality of having a baby in our lives (though it's been more real to me than to anyone else).

3. Also, I failed a test. A glucose one. And I have to do more testing tomorrow (that icky three hour one). At best, the initial test was wrong. At worst, I have gestational diabetes. At really worst, I have adult onset diabetes. I'm hoping for the best..

These are my surface-y thoughts lately. More to come soon, but for now I'm off to work.

April 4th Salon Topics

All input is welcome!

Discussion topics for April 4:
1. What is the most important technology of our time?
2. Can we acknowledge difference without judging?
3. Bad decisions: should we be held accountable--or not?

..and counting

I am dreading 1:00, and also the hour leading up to 1:00 and, let's face it, the hour directly after 1:00. Today at 1:00PM is Tim's funeral. It is currently 7:20AM and I still have not decided if I should go to the service or not.

This is a tricky situation. I feel like I ought to go. And certainly, who would say that they want to go to any one's funeral? Well, except that my Mom wants sparklers, baton twirling, and "Deep in the Heart of Texas" sung (complete with clapping) at her funeral.** And I would liked to have been a fly on the wall at the funeral in Iain Banks novel, The Crow Road, whose opening lines begin, 'It was the day my grandmother exploded. I sat in the crematorium, listening to my Uncle Hamish quietly snoring in harmony to Bach's Mass in B Minor..' Or maybe I'd be OK with going to a viewing with Grandma Mazur in the Stephanie Plum Bounty Hunter series in which funerals tend to be gossipy social gatherings where one never knows what might happen, especially if the service is closed casket.

But these are not realities. The realities are too sad, too horrific to be funny.

And please don't misunderstand. I don't mean to belittle the solemnity of the occasion. Tim's life is certainly worth mourning.

This post, sadly and selfishly, is about me. It's more that I don't know what to say. At funerals (and weddings, and baby showers, and any sort of gathering made up of two or more people) I become self-conscious about everything I do, whether I'm shaking a hand, giving a condolence, reacting to someone, speaking out loud... Everything should've/could've been done better, as noted in the numerous pages of mental critiques I give myself after an event. In addition, funerals are different from all other events since there are no formal invitations. I have to ask myself, "Is it my place to be there? Will the family want me there? Would it make a difference if I am not there, in which case, why would I stress my pregnant, hormonal self out by going?" Plus in this case, there is the added complication that my students will be there, ones who are currently in my class and those I've taught in the past who are coming home for Tim's service.

As usual, I'll probably spend some time telling myself to be firmly planted, stoic..teacherly... "Be strong. These kids need you," when really I know that (as usual) the students will, inevitably, hold me up instead. And I think that's OK. After all, I ask them to be vulnerable with me everyday. I suppose it is my turn.

Anyway.

It is now 8:20, and I think I ought to go.

I've known that I should go since Remington said the words, "Sunday at 1:00," though with that I felt the uneasiness of indecision rise within my soul.

It's 8:35. And I'm a selfish girl.

** Mom, that doesn't mean I want that party to happen any time soon. Do you hear me?!

From Operating Instructions

May 10

She's tiptoeing into the very beginning of some sort of relationship with God, or with a higher power, or something, but it is very hard for her to believe...

I recommended that she think of all of the women who have most adored her in her life and to come up with a sense of God based on that kind of love, on the same protectedness that it gives you to be loved by a really fine woman, a sense of some mysterious regenerative force at the center of things that is maybe just love. She said with great surprise, "I didn't know you could DO that," and I said, "Oh yeah, you can do anything you want, " and by this morning, she'd found a picture of a big cat licking a little cat. She's a great cat lover, and it stuck. So at the hospital this morning, as she sat in the doctor's office getting the chemo IV, and then as she sat around at home all day waiting to become Linda Blair, she said she'd picture this big cat licking her gently and carrying her in its mouth to safer places.

-Anne Lamott

I need a clarification

I can see why teachers harden their hearts. I think it is a defense mechanism because everyday we know that walking into a classroom means accepting (or denying) the decisions our students make, both good and bad. It means being judicious in the way that we are tolerant, whether we are talking about ignoring or prosecuting a small action of throwing a pencil across the room, or whether we are talking about something bigger than that.

The other night at dinner, we were laughing about junior high being the most difficult age group to work with because they are constantly trying to get away with behaviors that are not acceptable in the classroom (and that make the job difficult)- hitting the girl they have a crush on, saying a bad word loudly enough that they get a laugh, standing up for the billionth time when you have instructed them to stay seated, etc. We laughed and said, "Yeah but in high school, when they get in trouble, they REALLY get in trouble."

I have several 17 and 18 year old kids whom society deems "delinquent." They are sleeping around without considering the consequences, they are vandalizing property, they are doing and dealing illegal (and sometimes legal) drugs. Every year I have to talk to at least one girl about making good decisions when it comes to her emotional and bodily health. And when she makes the poor decision in spite of our discussions, I am there to help her "decide" what to do about the consequence. With boys, I generally have the prison discussion - as in you've made a bad decision, you've experienced the consequence. Where are you going from here?

The students come to teachers with their burdens. They trust us to be the voice of wisdom, and to know that when the boundaries in their lives haven't held, new stronger boundaries must be established, even if that means contacting school counselors or law enforcement. How many times have I wondered whether or not I am doing a kid a favor by "doing the right thing" in contacting the necessary enforcers? How many of those kids then go home to a worse circumstance because I've intervened? I rarely see the end result.

I was told that Tim P., one of my students on last year's litmag staff, died Friday. His body was found on Saturday. He overdosed on drugs of some sort. Tim was one of those who was constantly in my room talking about his life and the decisions he was making. In fact, he came by last week. I was annoyed at the time because I had a million things to grade, I was sick from being pregnant, and though I tried to act interested in what he was saying, I was clearly acting. I listened as he told me about some of the good things he was doing with his immense creativity and intellect and was semi-tolerant of some of the bad things. I'm sure I gave him the "teacher look" of disapproval because he hastened to talk about mending the bad things. It was hard for me to not roll my eyes and say, "Tim, Dammit! You are at it AGAIN! What in the hell is it going to take for you to stop making stupid decisions? How many times are you going to come in here for confession when what I say clearly fixes nothing?" But then that isn't my job, right?

When he left, I sort of felt relieved. I didn't say anything negative to him. I didn't establish stronger boundaries for him. I supported his good decisions, and told him that he could come back to visit anytime, though I only half-heartedly meant it. Tim, after all, was a delinquent. He was an adult who continued to make bad decisions, but who clearly needed some sort of edification since he was coming back to his high school teacher for guidance.

I don't think Tim's death was a suicide. And though I know I have no logical reason to feel responsible for it, emotionally I do.

What is my job, exactly? Define it for me! I can't be effective in the classroom if I have no emotional care for their well-beings! Yet, I can't save them all. I can't bring all of them home with me. So what the hell do I do?

Another wall is under construction around my heart simply because I'm human and I can't take on the joys and burdens of loving my students. Hopefully when all of my idealism is gone and the fortification around my heart is such that I don't have any compassion left.. Hopefully then I'll recognize that I need to find a new career. Otherwise, the community will be stuck with another defeated teacher robot.

Rumbling Awakening

It is a gorgeous day here in Metroplex, USA. Yes, it is thunderstormy, but it's the right kind of thunderstormy, i.e. the kind without tornadoes or hail. I love the rain, and not just because it gives me an excuse to ignore some of the tasks on my lists. I slow down on rainy days and listen to the thunder, which reminds me about the smallness of my body in this great big universe, and the pitter-patter of rain, which reminds me that my spirit is much bigger (and more powerful) than what the confines of my physicality can contain.

On days like these I like to be still in my cozy sweats, sip hot tea, and allow myself the time to be. There are two things I'd like to share today. The first is that I am constantly amazed by my students. One of them, Julia S., wrote a lovely post on Communitas, our shared litmag blog that promotes the spirit of community. The post is called "For the Price of Two Cups of Tea." Take a look.

Secondly,I decided to pull one of my Thich Nhat Hanh books off of the bookshelf and do a little refresher course on mindfulness. The book I pulled is called Creating True Peace: Ending Violence in Yourself, Your Family, Your Community, and the World. Violence in this instance is not just referring to physical violence, thought that is particularly relevant in this day and age, but it is also talking about the violence we create in ourselves and in others by not being mindful of our words and our actions.

When talking about peace I mean practicing actions that bring about peace and working at cultivating "understanding, love, and compassion, even in the face of misperception or conflict."
Thich Nhat Hanh says, "Peace is the practice of mindfulness, the practice of being aware of our thoughts, our actions, and the consequences of our actions." In practicing mindfulness we, in-turn, nurture our spirits and "diminish violence."

That being said, and without getting too woo woo about things, I have to remind myself of something extremely troubling. That is : "A person who is not happy cannot make peace... To bring about peace, our hearts must be peace."

If you have read any of my blog posts recently, you probably know that most of me is buried alive in anxiety, in exclusion, and in the things that I cannot control (mindlessness). I am, at the moment, anything BUT peaceful. So this is the part where I decide to accept that this mindlessness is a part of me right now, and also that these attitudes of violence against myself (which also affect my community in a violent way) are passing. They will die if I practice mindfulness, even if I have to start at square one. And that's where I am today..back at square one: Breathing.

Here is my meditation from the book today (feel free to join me):

1. Breathing in, I am aware only of my in breath. Breathing out, I am aware only of my out breath... In, Out.
2. Breathing in, I am aware that my in breath grows deep. Breathing out, I am aware that out breath grows deep... Deep, Deep.
3. Breathing in, I am aware that my in breath goes slowly. Breathing out, I am aware that my out breath goes slowly... Slow, Slow

Thank God for rainy days.

Creative or Cracked?

Yesterday I told Rich, with a hint of dipair, that my hairstyle looks Mormon. Honestly, I should have said that it looks Seventh Day Adventist.

But you know what I mean.

I also told him that our toothpaste tastes like surgery.

I failed to mention that our cat's head smells like warm oatmeal, but I think he already knows that.

Come Forth, Sweet Listlessness

I've been stupidly (and blindingly) busy lately and with things that only kind of matter, in a do-or-die kind of way. What I mean is that who I am is a list maker and I am working on millions of lists that detail everything from what to buy at the grocery store to how to dismantle an atomic bomb.

Nowhere on the lists does it mention:
- playing outside
- going to see a movie
- reading a book for pleasure
-breathing

Therefore my lists which are supposed to help me manage my time wisely and judiciously are actually (and actively):
- taking over my life
- making me a work junkie
- pushing me to feel completely exhausted and stressed out

And sometimes making the list takes longer than actually completing the tasks on it.

This is Spring Break for me, the operative word being 'break'. It is usually a time for people to be listless, or at least lazy.

But my lists say that I'm supposed to:
- clean house
- set up a nursery
- grade (thousands of papers) and study for school
- clean up the yard
- go to multiple doctor visits
- meet with/set up appointments to meet with day cares
- work on the baby budget
And these are just list categories! Underneath each category is a list of it's own. For example:

Set up nursery (get rid of "junk room" - where all things go that have no other place in my house) (to be done by Tuesday)
- clear off bookshelves
- organize books by stack (sell back, re-shelve, and attic)
- move shelves into front bedroom
- re-shelve books (except the ones that go to the attic or to Half Price Books)
- move dresser from front bedroom into nursery
- move piano out of nursery into... somewhere
- buy paint
- paint the walls
- move twin bed away from window
- buy curtain rods and sheers
- put up sheers
- clean out closet (one stack for charity, one for attic)
- buy a bassinet (But first, continue extensive research on bassinet companies to make sure I get the safest, most ergonomic one for my lifestyle (co-sleeper? 3 in 1? play yard with changing table?). Check Craigs list and Ebay)

All of that is one list! And the logical side of my brain is laughing at me. I mean, how can I get this one list done in one week, much less two days? And how am I supposed to manage this when all of my lists are more or less this detailed and necessary? Plus, oh yeah, I'm 7 months pregnant!!

I think the lists have got to go...or at least get consolidated somehow. I know the world won't end if I can't get it all done, but I DO know that for my sanity, I need to at least complete one of my lists.

Hi. My name is Ginger and I'm a listaholic.

Black and White Enough

One of my colleagues handed me an article called "Decoding the Debate Over the Blackness of Barak Obama" the other day. It was written a little over a year ago, and it talks about the idea that Barak Obama isn't "black enough" for the African American community and not "white enough" for the Caucasians. It discusses the culture of African Americans and the identity crisis that this country put them through during the years of segregation and how the effects of decisions made then are affecting how folks are trying to define their communities; we know that communities are in direct correlation to political leanings, now more than ever. One of the assertions is that one of the reasons the African Americans are slow to embrace Obama as their presidential candidate is because his ancestry is not one of slavery, therefore they do not consider him to be part of their community. They do, however, tend to be more accepting than the white democrats.

I am not sure about the absolute validity of the ideas in this article, and I am at least pleased to see that the author, Brent Staples, acknowledges that the younger generation is a lot more color blind than any other generation (read the part where it talks about the many who check more than one box for ethnicity on the census questionnaire). I certainly do see some self-inflicted segregation in my very diverse high school. But as far as politics are concerned, I see the black community and the white community embracing Obama for this election. See the caucus pictures from my community (which boasts many colors) for proof.













Waiting to caucus



















Rich holds sign "A-E" at the caucus















Doing homework while waiting to caucus















It was a mess, but we all eventually got to cast our votes.

Worth Watching

"Creativity expert Sir Ken Robinson challenges the way we're educating our children. He champions a radical rethink of our school systems, to cultivate creativity and acknowledge multiple types of intelligence."

"Why you should listen to him: Why don't we get the best out of people? Sir Ken Robinson argues that it's because we've been educated to become good workers, rather than creative thinkers. Students with restless minds and bodies -- far from being cultivated for their energy and curiosity -- are ignored or even stigmatized, with terrible consequences."
from www.ted.com

Six Months and Counting

I sort of swore to myself that I wouldn't do this. I don't want to be the girl who shows off her baby bump. I don't need photographic evidence of any any sort of bump, lump, or goiter. In fact, I'm not even fond of the words baby and/or bump, especially when put together. There is no rational reason for this. And I don't begrudge the ones who do take their baby bump pictures, so this is another one of those irrationalities that plagues my personality - just like my extreme loathing of Gloria Estefan or my horrific repugnance of the 'lasso-spank' dance move. Whatever. My dad asked me to post pictures, and I know that you are curious too.

People have definitely started to notice that I'm pregnant, what with all of the good luck/prayer belly rubbing performed by perfect strangers. The bad news is my students have started to yell, "Oh my GOSH! You're HUGE!" The good news is that all of the women on the planet who have ever been six months pregnant think I'm small for being this far along. The best news is that my doctor says everything looks healthy. She probably doesn't know that I threw down on two donuts and a bowl of Lucky Charms this morning. Whatever/Sigh.

Here you go:


Please don't ask me for a video of the birth..

Do as I did

It would be hypocritical of me to expect you guys to vote if I didn't exercise my right as well. So, being the overachiever that I am, I voted early. The last time I voted in a presidential election, we Texans didn't pay much attention to what a primary is, much less about platforms and policies. We lived in a country that basically said, "Hey we're feeling a little uncomfortable. That Bush guy - he's a crack-up with all of his noo-cyoo-lur speech and all. But whatever. CSI Miami is on. I wonder what that Horatio will say next. Pass me another Keystone." We laughed through the hilarity of dangling chads*. He he. They said "dangling" and "Chad." And though some of us did make the trek to the voting booth (I remember taking a pleasant stroll to mine), there wasn't nearly this amount of enthusiasm or interest in the election. I think, as Democrat Texans (if I can include myself in this group), we assumed our vote wouldn't matter anyway. And we were pretty much right.

This year is a much different scene. Even at early voting in this primary presidential election, the lines to participate went out of the door and into the parking lot. You're supposed to vote early so that you can "avoid the lines" on the actual election day. People were holding their voter registration cards close to their persons, nervously checking to see that they were current and signed. Though polite, you could feel a little bit of tension in the air... or maybe it was anxiety.. enthusiasm? I noticed that when folks were choosing their ballots^, they would study the "how to" flier before going to the booth, so that they would know exactly how the new voting machines work. I mostly heard the word "Democrat" with a couple of "Republican's" as people were filing in and choosing their ballots, not unexpected seeing as the Republican nominee has pretty much (but not officially) been selected. But I also wondered if Texas really is as Republican as I think it is, or if the Democrats in this state have been lazy (or preoccupied with daily life).

Anyway, I was extremely cautious in the booth and felt the weight of what I was doing. I made my decisions, checked them, confirmed them, and waited for the waving American Flag icon that let me know that my vote had been cast. I took a deep breath and hoped that I made the right decision for my life and for all of the people in my community, especially the ones who chose not to vote. When I left, I was disappointed that I didn't receive a sticker that said "I voted". I imagined that they ran out of them since so many folks were showing up to vote early.

The cool thing is that on Tuesday (MARCH 4th), the day of official voting, I am going to participate in my very first Caucus, the second part of the primary election (also called step two of "The Texas 2 Step"). I'm not sure exactly what to expect, except that I watched some of the Caucuses on TV this year and I know there is a lot of hand raising for "all for's" and "all opposed's". I expect this will be a community building event, and I am completely excited for it. I wonder if they'll let me take pictures..

So, go vote on Tuesday. Participate in the Caucus. This is a fantastic time for our state and for our country! And let me know that you have! We can celebrate together.

* My pregnant brain wondered how many people in Florida named their babies Chad that year.


^One has to declare which ballot he/she wants (Republican or Democrat) before going into the booth. 'One becomes "affiliated" with [that] party... for that primary year'.

Sunday Solace

It's Sunday, and I figure that Sunday is the appropriate day to dial it down a little and seek some sort of desperately needed spiritual solace for the coming week. For me, this solace comes in many forms, whether it be meditation, breathing, praying, writing and/or reading something that is genuine.

I recently read a book called Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott, a book given to me by a person named Gracia. Gracia sent the book via mail with this sticky note affixed to the cover: "I don't know about you, but chickies and bunnies got real old. Here's a different take on the baby thing. Enjoy."

First of all, I have to say that this is the only "parenting" book I've been able to get through without feeling absolute fear and consternation, and maybe this is because the book is actually a memoir. It details the first year of Anne's life with her new son, Sam, and how she absolutely has to rely on her community and her faith to make it through. It is both funny and witty, and extremely genuine. I identified with this part especially, though its only solace is that I get to say, "At least I'm not the only one". Here's the excerpt:

from June 16

I'm trying to keep my faith high, but I feel sort of disgusted and puzzled by God right now. It makes me think of Sam's gratuitous looting; God standing there bored at his table, dropping or letting people's lives drop, to the floor. It's like he doesn't even care, isn't even paying attention. It's like James Joyce said: he's doing his nails.

I have a friend named Anne, this woman I've known my entire life, who took her two year old up to Tahoe during the summer. They were staying in a rented condominium by the lake. And of course, it's such a hotbed of gambling that all the rooms are equipped with shades that block out every speck of light so you can stay up all night in the casinos and sleep all morning. One afternoon, she put the baby to bed in a his playpen in one of these rooms, in the pitch-dark and went to do some work. A few minutes later she heard the baby knocking on the door from inside the room., and she got up, knowing he'd crawled out of his playpen. She went to put him down again, but when she got to the door, she found he'd locked it. He had somehow managed to push in the little button on the doorknob. So he was calling to her, "Mommy, Mommy," and she was saying to him, "Jiggle the doorknob, darling," and and he didn't speak much English - mostly he seemed to speak Urdu. After a moment, it became clear to him that his mother couldn't open the door, and the panic set in. He began sobbing. So my friend ran around like crazy trying everything possible... And there he was in the dark, this terrified little child. Finally she did the only thing she could, which was to slide her fingers underneath the door where there was a one-inch space. She kept telling him over and over to bend down and find her fingers. Finally somehow he did. So they stayed like that for a really long time., on the floor, him holding onto her fingers in the dark. He stopped crying. She kept wanting to go call the fire department or something, but she felt that contact was the most important thing... So she kept saying, "Open the door now,"and every so often he would jiggle the knob, and eventually, after maybe half an hour, it popped open.

I keep thinking of that story, how much it feels like I'm the two-year-old in the dark and God is the mother and I don't speak the language. She could break down the door if that struck her as being the best way, and ride off with me on her charger. But instead, via my friends and my church and my shabby faith, I can just hold onto her fingers underneath the door. It isn't enough, and it is.

Completely Extracted

So, I had a tooth extracted on Monday. For those of you who have had this procedure done, you know that it isn't a pleasant experience. That being said, it could have been much worse. (Have Rich tell you the story about Dr. Death extracting some extra teeth..)

What occurred to me as I sat in the chair with several metal "instruments" sticking out of my mouth was not that my cheek skin was being stretched to its maximum uh.. stretch-itude, nor was I curious about what exactly was making that high pitched "sawing" sound. It was actually that, for some odd reason, I needed to be able to "handle" the extraction with some sort of ease and dignity if I am expected to, in 3 months, give birth to a baby. I felt like I was having some sort of dress rehearsal for a big event, a notion that is COMPLETELY mad seeing as one does not relate to the other - wrong doctor type, wrong body parts, wrong everything. The only thing the two situations might have in common is that there were needles involved, and a great deal of stress on my part. Oh, and both cases involve matter being "extracted" from my body.

The point is that having the tooth extracted was more of a mental battle to me. If I'm not brave for something this minor, then how in the hell am I going to perform in the majors? If proven unsuccessful, the baby will have to apply for college via my womb.

In the end, I think I did OK. I did ask for more of the numbing stuff so that I wouldn't actually feel anything but pressure. Things got a little "iffy" half-way through. I did leave the office with a swollen, stunned and betrayed, "How could you do this to me?" look on my face, especially after the special connection we made. And I sort of meant it, seeing as I felt totally vindicated when I "stole" a complimentary toothbrush from the lavatory. That'll show 'em.

But the doctor told me that I was a good patient. And I told him that he performed the best extraction I've ever had. So there you go. That means.. Well, it means nothing really. But I feel like I've had some sort of victory.

Just when you thought I couldn't gripe anymore, ours goes to eleven

People lie. They do. And, as a veteran teacher, I'm pretty good at reading the bullshit meter. So that's why I was dumbstruck that I actually believed all of those "mommy and me" types who talk about the wonder of being pregnant. And yes, though Jenny McCarthy has already said it under the guise of comedy, and though "the girlfriends" act like they've been brutally honest, mostly by crossing out the word "nine" and putting the word "ten" in parenthesis, I'm here to tell you, straight up, that pregnancy is not at all about "feeling the baby's butterfly kicks" and "nesting" in some "serene" and "beautifully glowing" moment in your life.

It effing sucks.

It's about your hips separating from your torso; waking jolting up in the middle of the night, not just to pee (for the fiftieth time), but because you've just realized that you've vurped in your mouth and now you are choking on it; it's about your stomach being in your throat and your spleen filling out a residence card in Canada. There are aches in parts of your body that you didn't know could ache. And it's tiring. So, so tiring. And before you accuse me of being overly hormonal and whiny (oh yes, another endearing side effect), please don't be the person who would just like to remind me that, "it's worth it in the end because you'll be bringing home that beautiful baby, after having pushed him, screaming, out of your vagina. All the pain will melt away, except that you'll have to sit on ice for the next three months, and you will be consumed by the little life that is now and forever a part of yours. And aww! Look at how teeny his hands are.."

Ew. I just vurped again.

I think they forgot to mention all of the nights we'll be up taking care of a colicky baby and making deals with God to just please "make it stop". And there will be lots of poop. Lots of poop. And worry - about the baby, about the finances, about fading into nothingness because I'll have surrendered wholly to the idea that I will never be a full person again.. And then after a grace period of learning wonder and Disneyland (i.e. ages 3-9, when parents tend to conceive again), the pre-teen and teenage years sneak-in with the sole purpose of kicking our 40 somethings' asses.

I keep having to remind myself that I chose this. And maybe if I try to anchor myself in some sarcasm reality, I might actually find the experience pleasant. But one thing is FOR CERTAIN: next time Rich is carrying the baby.

Democracy is an act.

"Democracy is not a state. It is not some high plateau that we struggle to reach so we can finally settle down to rest. Democracy is an act. It is an act that requires participation, organization, and dedication to the highest principles. It is an act, a series of actions that require us to continuously verify our commitment to civil rights and social justice at every challenge."

- John Lewis
American Freedom Rider, 1961
United States Representative in Congress (GA) since 1987
"The conscience of the US Congress"

Dear Texans,

For the first time in a really long time we matter in a primary election. We actually get to have an opinion about which presidential candidate's name goes on the ballot. This is an exciting time for us, and it also gives us great responsibility. It is our duty to voice our opinions. PLEASE vote on March 4th. Please act.

Sincerely,
Ginger

I'm a riddle in nine syllables

So, it would be a complete understatement to say that these days I'm scared. A lot. And of course I'm afraid of childbirth (although my ObGyn patted me on the knee yesterday and reminded me that women have been birthing babies since the beginning of time and then proceeded to tell one of those "funny, funny" stories about a woman who, while delivering, let out some sort of Towanda type warrior yawp that stunned her husband into a mute, stationary trance), but it's more than that.

It's more than even being afraid about being responsible for another human being. I'm firmly confident that I can keep him clothed and fed; it's the whole "how do you keep him from climbing a bell tower with a loaded rifle" type thing, though a student reminded me today that that sort of thing might have more to do with misfiring synapses than with actual upbringing. And yeah, I AM being dramatic. But really, how do you direct a person's character? At least I've got the guidance of the ones who guided me, and I suppose you might say that I turned out OK... so far. So that's not the whole of it.

I think what frightens me most is the fact that I am losing myself. I'm walking a very fine line these days, balancing the mandatory changes that come with having a baby (those that are already here and those that are coming quickly) with being who I am, or rather who I want to be. And how will I allow my life to move forward without getting totally consumed, as most wonderful mothers are, with my baby? I am already annoyed at myself for having little conversation/thought beyond baby names and pregnant girl ailments (this blog post is exhibit A).

Also, my relationships are changing: 1. The way in which people communicate with me and 2. The way in which I communicate with others.

1. It's true that when you are pregnant, you have joined an exclusive club of mothers who are eager to swap stories. And how can you blame them for their enthusiasm? The experience of carrying and bringing another human being into the world is a freaking HUGE thing. And (apparently) if you've never done it, then you will never understand it. I'm just now learning the secret handshake, and I think in June there may even be some sort of hooded ceremony complete with a blood signed oath or something. People who don't normally talk to me are eager to know about very personal things, and they want to tell you their very personal things. And I indulge them, mostly out of respect, because what the hell do I know? I have a feeling that the "soccer mom" club is very similar.

2. I'm freaking going insane. I've been thinking about the relationships I have with people and how they are changing, and can see how easy it will be to let some go and hold some closer than ever. I've already semi-subconsciously been making double-columned mental lists that, on one side, detail hurtful past grievances that are not so healthy and that won't be healthy for my kid versus the other side, which lists the wonderful things that that person "adds to" my life. Then I obsess. What happens if I lose a really great friend just because I'll be so busy learning to be a mom? What happens if all I can think about is the color of the baby's bowel movements, and the breast milk that will (inevitably) be soaking through my shirts? What will I add to my friends' lives then? What happens if I'm too tired all of the time and I lose my creativity, which is already fading as I work at being more responsible? I'm already abandoning my rationality (clearly).

I probably have a lot more control over all of these things than I allow myself, and I know that the simple answer is wait and see. And well, just like all things in life, I suppose I'll have to do just that, though the list maker in me is cringing. Things just feel a little out of control and A LOT overwhelming.


Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Sylvia Plath

Sunshine and Sunglasses

Yesterday was a gorgeous day in the Metroplex, so we decided to make a pilgrimage to the local arboretum for some breathing time and some much needed sunshine. Here are a few pics from the day. Go to the Flickr badge to see more (and to catch a glimpse of the pregnant girl's belly!). :)