So when you become a parent, there's no contract that you sign, at least, not if you're giving birth biologically. It's just bam... nine months and a whole lot of pushing and pain later, and, yeah, you're a parent. No paperwork required. (Well, minimum paper work required).
But if there was some sort of contract or agreement that you had to sign off on, I wonder what the Santa Clause Clause would state. What advice it would offer, or what guidelines it would give for handling the whole Santa Clause ordeal. Our daughter is nine now... old enough that she is questioning the whole Santa thing. But they don't tell you in childbirth or parenting classes what to do nine years down the road. Out at dinner a few weeks back, our daughter asked us point blank whether or not Santa exists. My husband and I exchanged looks, giving each other the non-verbal go ahead. The time had I arrived.
"Kaliah," Rashieme began. And he proceeded to explain to her that Santa Clause is a made-up tradition and not a reality.
She had to have seen this coming. A few years ago, stuck in the conundrum of what to do in light of the fact that my daughter had been very well behaved all year, and yet had asked for a ridiculous amount of expensive gifts that were definitely beyond my capabilities to provide, I took an innovative approach in trying to balance her belief in Santa with her trust in his judgment of her excellent behavior, and to resolve that with the fact that she would not be getting everything she requested on her wish list, even though she had definitely been good, and not naughty. I told her that Santa leaves a bill. The bill, which was paid by mom, was used to pay the elves, and the more on the Christmas list, the higher the bill. Therefore, even if one was very good all year, one needed to be reasonable in requesting gifts, so that mom wouldn't get stuck with a ridiculous bill.
Certainly this doesn't go with what all else she's learned about Santa in the movies and books and in school and what not. But she took the information in in stride and never questioned me on it.
Also, all parents generally consider their kids pretty smart, and I'm not an exception. But even admitting my bias, my daughter scores in the top of her class when it comes to reading and math, and she's often praised for thinking outside the box and reasoning well. So, based on the fact that she's NINE, and had begun deliberating the possibilities of one man getting around the whole entire world in one night, in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer, going in and out of chimneys--and what about the people who don't have chimneys?--given her intellectual achievements, coupled by the compromised version of Santa's charging for his services that I've already given her, along with the fact that she's asking us how Santa is able to do all he does... I'm thinking that she's ready for the truth.
So imagine my surprise, when, as Rashieme concludes his lecture, she stares at us both, pausing momentarily, and then asks:
"So... does a fake Santa come in and leave all the toys?"
Rashieme stares at her, then at me. He reaches for his drink, grins, and just says, "I'm not telling her again."
And that was basically it for a few weeks, though I'd been debating about what to do as far as gifts go this year. Not worry about setting them all up on Christmas Eve? Kaliah, did, after all, decide to buy her own candy to go in our stockings yesterday.
But then, just today, she says, "Mom, I think I need to write a letter to Santa."
Before I can question her, she rushes into, "I know that Fake Santa's going to come, and he doesn't know what I want."
So not only is she still believing in Santa, (albeit a fake one), she doesn't even want to show me the letter, because she doesn't want me to buy the same thing as Fake Santa. I finally convinced her that I needed to proofread it for her, because Fake Santa might not honor her requests if there were spelling errors in this letter (that I desperately needed to read in order to make sure that I'd covered her wish list this year).
It's nice, in a way, to have a child who's not ready to let go. Who is so wonderfully innocent and naïve. Yes, I worry about the future. About whether she'll get teased. If she will share any of these unorthodox views at the playground.
But mostly, I'm just happy that I'm still a front row audience to the innocence of childhood, to the refusal to let go of a fantasy, even if it needs a bit of tweaking to still fit with her world view. I'm happy to let my kid be a kid.
Merry Christmas everyone. Best of luck playing Santa this year. Or in my case, Fake Santa.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Saturday, December 13, 2014
Identity Crisis
A couple times this month, in the heyday of doctoral studies, two jobs, mothering, being a wifey, and just generally being swept along in the insanity of life, I found a few minutes to just write. Finally, thank God. Moments I'd been waiting for, moments I missed so much it hurt. It was just me and my laptop. I'd found time to blog, or work on a new novel, or write a short story, or resurrect an old novel. I'd found time to write, and just be me.
And then, I sat down to write, overwhelmingly thankful that I'd found the opportunity to do so...
And nothing happened.
I had nothing to write about.
This has happened to me before, but this time, it's been really bad. (Not really bad, compared to, like, your tax bill. Or breaking an arm. Or accidentally trying a brussel sprout later in life, even though you're pretty sure you still hate them). But for me, pretty bad.
I think I don't know what to write about because I don't know who I am as a writer.
I know that I am a writer. It's strange, in any situation where writers are gathered (like at the NWP Annual Meeting, where I was given a few topics and surrounded by other writers), well, then I can write my butt off. About anything.
But I don't know what kind of writer I am, anymore, if I'm not given a topic and other people writing around me. Sometimes even if you give me a topic (my husband has an ingenious idea for a novel that could definitely be a best seller, a movie, what have you, if it were done right)... I still don't know if I can do it. Maybe it's because I've been rejected so much. Or maybe it's because I'm still torn between humorous non-fiction and fiction, and in that fiction category, I'm all over the place, vaguely claiming to write "women's" fiction, or "commercial" fiction. Maybe it's because that fiction is sort of Christian and sort of mainstream, and I'm wondering if it has a place anywhere.
Or maybe it's just because I have nothing good to say right now.
I could write about how happy I am. Have you ever been so happy, that you just want to hold onto that moment so badly, because it feels like you must be dreaming? That was me the other day, in this beautiful, every day moment, when my husband smiled at me, and simply said, "The tree looks nice." And in that moment, hugging him in front of our Christmas tree, knowing how far we've come, how much I didn't expect to be married in this point in time, how blessed I am to have a brilliant daughter and an amazing husband, and to be so surrounded by love that it feels too fragile, too perfect to be real... Words can't describe how precious life is.
Or maybe it's because the world is still so messed up, and my happiness, or my fiction (happy or not) seems small and insignificant in comparison to Ferguson, to the protesting, to the anger and injustice and frustrations that have come bubbling back up in society. It's a helpless feeling, to see so much hurt, so many voiceless, infuriated people, who have something to say and no one to listen. Sometimes it feels like, why add another voice, when I don't have anything to say?
Or maybe it's just because I'm too tired to think of anything worth writing about. And in that case, maybe I just need some coffee.
I logged on to this blog today and noticed that I updated it only once last month. Never the less, there were 120 views. 120 clicks that cared about what I had to say. It's humbling, that even though I wasn't saying much, people were still listening.
I hope I figure it out--what I want to say. I've always wanted to be a writer. And I am a writer. But the industry beats you down. You're left feeling uncertain after multiple rejections from agents. The form letters that remind you that this is just a business. The ones that hurt more are the ones that liked your work. That compared you to someone else out there, someone who's fortunate enough to have made it. Then they let you down anyway, saying that in spite of it's merit, your work is too this or not enough that.
And I get it. It's just business.
But writing is so much more than that to me.
I just need to rediscover what I need to say.
Thanks for sticking with me, dear readers.
And then, I sat down to write, overwhelmingly thankful that I'd found the opportunity to do so...
And nothing happened.
I had nothing to write about.
This has happened to me before, but this time, it's been really bad. (Not really bad, compared to, like, your tax bill. Or breaking an arm. Or accidentally trying a brussel sprout later in life, even though you're pretty sure you still hate them). But for me, pretty bad.
I think I don't know what to write about because I don't know who I am as a writer.
I know that I am a writer. It's strange, in any situation where writers are gathered (like at the NWP Annual Meeting, where I was given a few topics and surrounded by other writers), well, then I can write my butt off. About anything.
But I don't know what kind of writer I am, anymore, if I'm not given a topic and other people writing around me. Sometimes even if you give me a topic (my husband has an ingenious idea for a novel that could definitely be a best seller, a movie, what have you, if it were done right)... I still don't know if I can do it. Maybe it's because I've been rejected so much. Or maybe it's because I'm still torn between humorous non-fiction and fiction, and in that fiction category, I'm all over the place, vaguely claiming to write "women's" fiction, or "commercial" fiction. Maybe it's because that fiction is sort of Christian and sort of mainstream, and I'm wondering if it has a place anywhere.
Or maybe it's just because I have nothing good to say right now.
I could write about how happy I am. Have you ever been so happy, that you just want to hold onto that moment so badly, because it feels like you must be dreaming? That was me the other day, in this beautiful, every day moment, when my husband smiled at me, and simply said, "The tree looks nice." And in that moment, hugging him in front of our Christmas tree, knowing how far we've come, how much I didn't expect to be married in this point in time, how blessed I am to have a brilliant daughter and an amazing husband, and to be so surrounded by love that it feels too fragile, too perfect to be real... Words can't describe how precious life is.
Or maybe it's because the world is still so messed up, and my happiness, or my fiction (happy or not) seems small and insignificant in comparison to Ferguson, to the protesting, to the anger and injustice and frustrations that have come bubbling back up in society. It's a helpless feeling, to see so much hurt, so many voiceless, infuriated people, who have something to say and no one to listen. Sometimes it feels like, why add another voice, when I don't have anything to say?
Or maybe it's just because I'm too tired to think of anything worth writing about. And in that case, maybe I just need some coffee.
I logged on to this blog today and noticed that I updated it only once last month. Never the less, there were 120 views. 120 clicks that cared about what I had to say. It's humbling, that even though I wasn't saying much, people were still listening.
I hope I figure it out--what I want to say. I've always wanted to be a writer. And I am a writer. But the industry beats you down. You're left feeling uncertain after multiple rejections from agents. The form letters that remind you that this is just a business. The ones that hurt more are the ones that liked your work. That compared you to someone else out there, someone who's fortunate enough to have made it. Then they let you down anyway, saying that in spite of it's merit, your work is too this or not enough that.
And I get it. It's just business.
But writing is so much more than that to me.
I just need to rediscover what I need to say.
Thanks for sticking with me, dear readers.
Friday, November 7, 2014
An Ode to Childhood Summers on the Delaware Coast
I know. I haven't been writing.
I have nothing to say in my defense.
Except that I just found this story I wrote for my non-fiction class in college, and I kind of fell in love again.
I'm not sharing the whole thing, because I want to be selfish. And maybe because my boss has inspired me to enter a short story contest (through which she herself got published this year! Yay!), and the theme for next year's entries just happens to be The Beach.
I wrote what you're about to read in March of 2004. It has three parts--the one I'm sharing is essentially an ode to childhood. The second part considers the longing to return to said childhood. The third shows an actual attempt to do just that. And I'm thinking of adding a fourth section, because my whole view on childhood has really been enhanced by, um, having a child.
But for now, here's the first section. I hope you enjoy.
I know I enjoyed writing it.
**After submitting this piece to my professor, Dr. Vince Puma's comments included the most inspiring compliment I've ever received from a teacher. He wrote, "I expect to see your name in print someday."
It's taking me longer than I hoped, Dr. Puma...
But I am still trying.
I have nothing to say in my defense.
Except that I just found this story I wrote for my non-fiction class in college, and I kind of fell in love again.
I'm not sharing the whole thing, because I want to be selfish. And maybe because my boss has inspired me to enter a short story contest (through which she herself got published this year! Yay!), and the theme for next year's entries just happens to be The Beach.
I wrote what you're about to read in March of 2004. It has three parts--the one I'm sharing is essentially an ode to childhood. The second part considers the longing to return to said childhood. The third shows an actual attempt to do just that. And I'm thinking of adding a fourth section, because my whole view on childhood has really been enhanced by, um, having a child.
But for now, here's the first section. I hope you enjoy.
I know I enjoyed writing it.
Waves
I.
Crest—The portion of a wave displaced above
the still water line; the highest point of the wave.
We used to call it “Washing Machine.”
Washing
Machine—our very technical term for what happened when the angry gray waves
tore our tiny bodies off our fluorescent purple and orange Moorey Boogie
boards; slamming us beneath a crashing current, boards flailing about above us,
snapping our skinny arms back by the sea-soaked black leashes, sand invading
every possible crevice as we tumbled into human pretzel shapes tossed about by
the immense power of exploding murky swells, and we came up sputtering and
choking, blinking in the bright sun and staggering to our feet above the frothy
white aftermath which fizzled around our ankles.
Washing Machine.
And we would gasp for air, and tilt
our heads to the side, banging the fists not restrained by the body board
leashes against our skulls, in an effort to pound the sand out of our ears.
“Did you see that?” I’d scream to
my brothers and best friend Courtney, charging back into the waves. The taste of salt was overpowering, and I
loved it in a way I wouldn’t come to understand until much later in life. I would gallantly battle to throw my small
body past the roaring breaking point, fighting my way back to my fellow adventurers,
still rubbing my eyes, or tugging at my bathing suit, or briefly examining and
then dismissing the scarlet scraping above my things and knees inflicted by my
contact with the furious ocean floor during the last Washing Machine.
Ah, to have millions of grains of
sand coat the top of my scalp, clinging to my clumped wet hair, and to not
care! To have the sticky residue of salt
water paint my entire sun-bronzed body, and to not want a shower! To be thrown violently time and time again
from the slippery beast that was my Moorey Boogie board, and worry not once
about twisting an ankle, or breaking what would become, later in life, my
waitressing wrist.
What a wonderful thing, to be young
and in love with the ocean.
**After submitting this piece to my professor, Dr. Vince Puma's comments included the most inspiring compliment I've ever received from a teacher. He wrote, "I expect to see your name in print someday."
It's taking me longer than I hoped, Dr. Puma...
But I am still trying.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Doc Life
So I happened to visit my brother a couple days ago, who asked me about my blog, as he'd met a blogger who has similar interests.
Which prompted me to think, oh, yeah. I have a blog.
So today, I logged on and realized that I haven't updated my blog since late August.
And felt a bit guilty, not because I think anyone really misses the occasional humor, but because it's a mark of something that, once again, I didn't follow through on.
But then I decided that this time, I had a good excuse.
As a colleague put it, when I asked him how he was doing:
"Well, I entered the doctoral program, and then my life exploded."
Doc studies are, to me, so many things: Challenging. Invigorating. Consuming. Rewarding. Painful. Hopeful.
Life changing.
Maybe I'm being overdramatic. But maybe I'm not. Nothing else that I've ever done in academia has pushed me like this, forced me to question the world around me, required such dedication or commitment.
The first few weeks, I was on autopilot, rushing from school to work to school to my other work to home to church to school to work to my other work to home... you get the idea.
I was so thrown off with my sense of scheduling. As a school teacher, you work Monday to Friday. Of course you grade and plan at night and on the weekends. But you have a set regular schedule. Since I've become a research assistant, I also have a base schedule... but between special opportunities and deadlines, often the base schedule becomes a mere suggestion... and even when it's not, I'm still trying to remember when I work at my second job (basically all closing shifts, so I'm getting home around two in the morning on those nights). It's pretty amazing to me that so far, I've showed up at all the right times to all the right places.
But just to give you an idea as to how much I'm in the moment, as opposed to seeing the big picture, here's a true story.
The other day, I was driving past the elementary school to do some laundry, because our dryer, which has been fixed four times, broke once again. As I passed Kaliah's school, I frowned to myself, because I noticed that there were cars lined up around the block all over the place. And I thought to myself, how rude! What on earth is going on at the school that they wouldn't even notify the parents? Obviously, I'd like to know so that I could at least have the option of participating! I was about to work myself into a full blown tizzy when I happened to glance at the clock and realize that it was a little after three.
The line of cars was there to pick up their children.
My very own daughter was IN the building. While I'm having a momzilla moment going off about the lack of etiquette the school was displaying over not letting me know what kind of special event is going on...
It dawns on me that there was no special event. Just my daughter going home from school. Which happens every day, at this time, at this place.
And I am so clueless, I've forgotten my own kid is in this building.
(And no, my poor, overworked brain had no sense of where my kid actually was, if not at school. So don't ask.)
I know, right? Mother of the year, right here.
But in all seriousness, between my efforts to be a mom and wife and student and research assistant and manager (and late cook--that's a fun one. My restaurant stops scheduling late night cooks this time of the year, so you'd be happy to know that my culinary skills are improving, because, um, they have to)--being a blogger has sort of fallen off the radar. And while I still consider myself a writer (I always will), the writing I'm doing these days is primarily academic.
But it was a pleasant surprise to see, that when I found a few minutes today to check into the situation...
Apparently I had 163 views over the past month, even though I hadn't updated a single time.
So, wow.
And thanks.
And I'm going to try to do better. No promises, because life is short. And full. And I know that I am no Super Woman.
But as always, I do appreciate your support. And I'm quite taken aback by it this time.
So thanks for reading. And please continue doing so.
And I'll do my best to continue writing.
Which prompted me to think, oh, yeah. I have a blog.
So today, I logged on and realized that I haven't updated my blog since late August.
And felt a bit guilty, not because I think anyone really misses the occasional humor, but because it's a mark of something that, once again, I didn't follow through on.
But then I decided that this time, I had a good excuse.
As a colleague put it, when I asked him how he was doing:
"Well, I entered the doctoral program, and then my life exploded."
Doc studies are, to me, so many things: Challenging. Invigorating. Consuming. Rewarding. Painful. Hopeful.
Life changing.
Maybe I'm being overdramatic. But maybe I'm not. Nothing else that I've ever done in academia has pushed me like this, forced me to question the world around me, required such dedication or commitment.
The first few weeks, I was on autopilot, rushing from school to work to school to my other work to home to church to school to work to my other work to home... you get the idea.
I was so thrown off with my sense of scheduling. As a school teacher, you work Monday to Friday. Of course you grade and plan at night and on the weekends. But you have a set regular schedule. Since I've become a research assistant, I also have a base schedule... but between special opportunities and deadlines, often the base schedule becomes a mere suggestion... and even when it's not, I'm still trying to remember when I work at my second job (basically all closing shifts, so I'm getting home around two in the morning on those nights). It's pretty amazing to me that so far, I've showed up at all the right times to all the right places.
But just to give you an idea as to how much I'm in the moment, as opposed to seeing the big picture, here's a true story.
The other day, I was driving past the elementary school to do some laundry, because our dryer, which has been fixed four times, broke once again. As I passed Kaliah's school, I frowned to myself, because I noticed that there were cars lined up around the block all over the place. And I thought to myself, how rude! What on earth is going on at the school that they wouldn't even notify the parents? Obviously, I'd like to know so that I could at least have the option of participating! I was about to work myself into a full blown tizzy when I happened to glance at the clock and realize that it was a little after three.
The line of cars was there to pick up their children.
My very own daughter was IN the building. While I'm having a momzilla moment going off about the lack of etiquette the school was displaying over not letting me know what kind of special event is going on...
It dawns on me that there was no special event. Just my daughter going home from school. Which happens every day, at this time, at this place.
And I am so clueless, I've forgotten my own kid is in this building.
(And no, my poor, overworked brain had no sense of where my kid actually was, if not at school. So don't ask.)
I know, right? Mother of the year, right here.
But in all seriousness, between my efforts to be a mom and wife and student and research assistant and manager (and late cook--that's a fun one. My restaurant stops scheduling late night cooks this time of the year, so you'd be happy to know that my culinary skills are improving, because, um, they have to)--being a blogger has sort of fallen off the radar. And while I still consider myself a writer (I always will), the writing I'm doing these days is primarily academic.
But it was a pleasant surprise to see, that when I found a few minutes today to check into the situation...
Apparently I had 163 views over the past month, even though I hadn't updated a single time.
So, wow.
And thanks.
And I'm going to try to do better. No promises, because life is short. And full. And I know that I am no Super Woman.
But as always, I do appreciate your support. And I'm quite taken aback by it this time.
So thanks for reading. And please continue doing so.
And I'll do my best to continue writing.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
How to Not Change Your Name (In 22 Easy Steps)
Hello, Blogging World!
I am back, after a beautiful, intimate wedding ceremony, a fantastic minimoon across the bridge to Annapolis, and several back-to-back shifts at the restaurant. Though I will most likely remain J. Lynn Meister here and in other writing endeavors in an attempt to not have to rebuild a reputation/following, the truth is:
I am now Mrs. Jenny McFadden.
But not yet... legally, anyway.
Though we were married nearly two weeks ago, today was the day I wanted to get the name change accomplished. It was a week day off in which we had to make a trip to Denton for a few other reasons, so it was the perfect time to pick up the certified copy of the wedding license from the Caroline County Circuit Court and then continue on to the Social Security branch to present the proof of our marriage and request my name change.
Sounds simple enough, right?
Wrong. May I present...
How to Not Change Your Name (In 22 Easy Steps)
1. Drive over an hour to Denton, Maryland, to request a certified copy of your marriage license.
2. Pay for, wait patiently for, and then receive said copy of marriage license.
3. Notice that beneath a section labeled "Minister Return Authorizing Marriage," the license says "No information about marriage given."
4. Ask the clerk if this is a problem.
5. Try not to have a mini heart attack when clerk agrees that that actually is a problem, and questions whether or not officiant sent required paperwork.
6. Explain that officiant should have sent paperwork morning of Thursday, July 31.
7. Breathe a sigh of relief when clerk locates unprocessed paperwork (in what looked to be like a fairly large pile of unprocessed paperwork).
8. Wait patiently as clerk prints and stamps a new certified marriage license.
9. Set off for the social security branch office nearest to your home in Georgetown, Delaware.
10. Fifty minutes later, get lost looking for said social security branch office in Georgetown, Delaware.
11. Venture into Georgetown Town Hall to ask where social security branch office is located.
12. Find out that social security office has relocated from Georgetown, Delaware, to Lewes, Delaware.
13. Get back into car to head to Lewes, Delaware, accidentally taking the wrong exit in the circle and having to get back on it to exit correctly, only to find that upon re-entering the circle, a bumper-to-bumper line of traffic that was non-existent moments before has suddenly materialized.
14. Drive to Lewes, Delaware.
15. Pass the new social security branch office, which is hidden in what looks to be like a brand new apartment complex, obscured in part by ongoing construction which forces unusual traffic patterns and diverts one's attention from the location of the office.
16. Realize that you must have passed the new office, and search for a suitable place to turn around and find the office.
17. Notice the all-but-hidden sign visible only from the direction in which you are now approaching, and attempt to turn into the parking lot in which the office must surely be located.
18. Drive aimlessly around the parking lot of what is most definitely a brand new apartment complex, wondering where Social Security office is located, and why it is located here.
19. Accidentally find Social Security office.
20. Park car, grab marriage license and purse, exit car to enter office.
21. Realize that office closed twenty minutes ago.
22. Proceed to work, bummed out by the realization that you must now attempt the second half of this process again tomorrow morning before the next shift you work. Knock over a traffic cone when pulling out into the lane-shifted vehicular pattern as you attempt to turn into the correct lane against oncoming traffic.
But at least now I know where this God forsaken office is. And perhaps their ploy to camouflage themselves within an apartment building will work to my advantage and I won't have to deal with long lines of irritated customers.
Only time will tell, so on that note, I'd better get to bed so that I might get as much shut eye as is required after closing a restaurant in order to wake up early and venture onward to brave the Super Secret Social Security office in the morning.
This is Jenny McFadden, signing off to say, good night world, and thanks, as always, for reading.
I am back, after a beautiful, intimate wedding ceremony, a fantastic minimoon across the bridge to Annapolis, and several back-to-back shifts at the restaurant. Though I will most likely remain J. Lynn Meister here and in other writing endeavors in an attempt to not have to rebuild a reputation/following, the truth is:
I am now Mrs. Jenny McFadden.
But not yet... legally, anyway.
Though we were married nearly two weeks ago, today was the day I wanted to get the name change accomplished. It was a week day off in which we had to make a trip to Denton for a few other reasons, so it was the perfect time to pick up the certified copy of the wedding license from the Caroline County Circuit Court and then continue on to the Social Security branch to present the proof of our marriage and request my name change.
Sounds simple enough, right?
Wrong. May I present...
How to Not Change Your Name (In 22 Easy Steps)
1. Drive over an hour to Denton, Maryland, to request a certified copy of your marriage license.
2. Pay for, wait patiently for, and then receive said copy of marriage license.
3. Notice that beneath a section labeled "Minister Return Authorizing Marriage," the license says "No information about marriage given."
4. Ask the clerk if this is a problem.
5. Try not to have a mini heart attack when clerk agrees that that actually is a problem, and questions whether or not officiant sent required paperwork.
6. Explain that officiant should have sent paperwork morning of Thursday, July 31.
7. Breathe a sigh of relief when clerk locates unprocessed paperwork (in what looked to be like a fairly large pile of unprocessed paperwork).
8. Wait patiently as clerk prints and stamps a new certified marriage license.
9. Set off for the social security branch office nearest to your home in Georgetown, Delaware.
10. Fifty minutes later, get lost looking for said social security branch office in Georgetown, Delaware.
11. Venture into Georgetown Town Hall to ask where social security branch office is located.
12. Find out that social security office has relocated from Georgetown, Delaware, to Lewes, Delaware.
13. Get back into car to head to Lewes, Delaware, accidentally taking the wrong exit in the circle and having to get back on it to exit correctly, only to find that upon re-entering the circle, a bumper-to-bumper line of traffic that was non-existent moments before has suddenly materialized.
14. Drive to Lewes, Delaware.
15. Pass the new social security branch office, which is hidden in what looks to be like a brand new apartment complex, obscured in part by ongoing construction which forces unusual traffic patterns and diverts one's attention from the location of the office.
16. Realize that you must have passed the new office, and search for a suitable place to turn around and find the office.
17. Notice the all-but-hidden sign visible only from the direction in which you are now approaching, and attempt to turn into the parking lot in which the office must surely be located.
18. Drive aimlessly around the parking lot of what is most definitely a brand new apartment complex, wondering where Social Security office is located, and why it is located here.
19. Accidentally find Social Security office.
20. Park car, grab marriage license and purse, exit car to enter office.
21. Realize that office closed twenty minutes ago.
22. Proceed to work, bummed out by the realization that you must now attempt the second half of this process again tomorrow morning before the next shift you work. Knock over a traffic cone when pulling out into the lane-shifted vehicular pattern as you attempt to turn into the correct lane against oncoming traffic.
But at least now I know where this God forsaken office is. And perhaps their ploy to camouflage themselves within an apartment building will work to my advantage and I won't have to deal with long lines of irritated customers.
Only time will tell, so on that note, I'd better get to bed so that I might get as much shut eye as is required after closing a restaurant in order to wake up early and venture onward to brave the Super Secret Social Security office in the morning.
This is Jenny McFadden, signing off to say, good night world, and thanks, as always, for reading.
Mr. and Mrs. McFadden, just after being introduced to the congregation as man and wife.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
True Tales of a Wacky Wedding Rehearsal...
Pop Quiz:
Which of the following happened during our wedding rehearsal?
A) We locked the groom's mother out of his house without her keys or purse ten minutes before rehearsal began.
B) The matron of honor got lost trying to find the ceremony venue.
C) The bride's phone died and the groom left his at the house, meaning the bride and groom had no idea how to get to the rehearsal dinner location, being as it was a restaurant (an amazing restaurant, by the way) located tucked away in the vast middle of nowhere known as Hurlock, Maryland.
D) The bridal party discovered they had no working electricity to try out music for the rehearsal, since it had not been turned on at their outdoor location.
E) The bride's mother got stung by a bee on her foot as she returned to her seat after walking the bride down the aisle, prompting her to scream at the top of her lungs and kick off her shoe, sending it sailing across the park and smacking the boyfriend of the maid of honor.
F) The bride's brother's girlfriend (who is allergic to bees) was also stung.
G) All of the above.
If you answered G, you're probably thinking, she's gotta be making some of this stuff up. This doesn't happen in real life.
Well, if you're Jenny Meister...
it does.
So you would be correct in answering G.
But here's the thing: the rehearsal was far from perfect, just as my fiancé and I are far from perfect. But we are in this, no matter what. So even if bees swarm our wedding (they sprayed), or the electricity doesn't come on (they promised it would) or I trip and go falling down the aisle (I hope I won't), or we drop the rings in the Choptank River (they're insured)...
I am still getting married tomorrow.
To the love of my life and my best friend.
The father of our daughter, our protector and provider. The one who keeps me safe and tells me I am loved.
And at the end of the day, each other are all we really need.
Now having said that, it looks like God is blessing us with beautiful weather. I pray all who are attending travel safe. I pray that the catastrophic every day crazy that likes to follow me around chills out for a bit.
"This is going to sound like fiction" is my brand name. It's the little catch phrase that describes my quirky, strange-but-I-swear-it's-true humor writing.
As I was relating the wedding rehearsal woes to a friend, she laughed, and said, "That's so Meister!"
Funnily enough, I'm even listed under her phone contacts as Meister.
But here's the thing:
As of tomorrow, I'll be a McFadden.
And while I'm sure the true tales of every day crazy will continue, what I really want for tomorrow is for the only crazy but true story to be of how much we love each other.
And no matter what else does or does not happen, I know that's what I'll remember.
Happy Wedding Eve, E'rrybody!!!
Rehearsal Dinner was a blast, even if rehearsal wasn't exactly what one would call smooth sailing...
Which of the following happened during our wedding rehearsal?
A) We locked the groom's mother out of his house without her keys or purse ten minutes before rehearsal began.
B) The matron of honor got lost trying to find the ceremony venue.
C) The bride's phone died and the groom left his at the house, meaning the bride and groom had no idea how to get to the rehearsal dinner location, being as it was a restaurant (an amazing restaurant, by the way) located tucked away in the vast middle of nowhere known as Hurlock, Maryland.
D) The bridal party discovered they had no working electricity to try out music for the rehearsal, since it had not been turned on at their outdoor location.
E) The bride's mother got stung by a bee on her foot as she returned to her seat after walking the bride down the aisle, prompting her to scream at the top of her lungs and kick off her shoe, sending it sailing across the park and smacking the boyfriend of the maid of honor.
F) The bride's brother's girlfriend (who is allergic to bees) was also stung.
G) All of the above.
If you answered G, you're probably thinking, she's gotta be making some of this stuff up. This doesn't happen in real life.
Well, if you're Jenny Meister...
it does.
So you would be correct in answering G.
But here's the thing: the rehearsal was far from perfect, just as my fiancé and I are far from perfect. But we are in this, no matter what. So even if bees swarm our wedding (they sprayed), or the electricity doesn't come on (they promised it would) or I trip and go falling down the aisle (I hope I won't), or we drop the rings in the Choptank River (they're insured)...
I am still getting married tomorrow.
To the love of my life and my best friend.
The father of our daughter, our protector and provider. The one who keeps me safe and tells me I am loved.
And at the end of the day, each other are all we really need.
Now having said that, it looks like God is blessing us with beautiful weather. I pray all who are attending travel safe. I pray that the catastrophic every day crazy that likes to follow me around chills out for a bit.
"This is going to sound like fiction" is my brand name. It's the little catch phrase that describes my quirky, strange-but-I-swear-it's-true humor writing.
As I was relating the wedding rehearsal woes to a friend, she laughed, and said, "That's so Meister!"
Funnily enough, I'm even listed under her phone contacts as Meister.
But here's the thing:
As of tomorrow, I'll be a McFadden.
And while I'm sure the true tales of every day crazy will continue, what I really want for tomorrow is for the only crazy but true story to be of how much we love each other.
And no matter what else does or does not happen, I know that's what I'll remember.
Happy Wedding Eve, E'rrybody!!!
Rehearsal Dinner was a blast, even if rehearsal wasn't exactly what one would call smooth sailing...
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Going to the chapel...
And we're... gonna get marrrrriiiiiieeeeeed.
Actually, we're headed to a state park. It is my little girl, happy-ever-after, dream-come-true, knight-in-shining-armor fairy tale ending.
Except it's not--it's a beginning.
We contemplated the courthouse. But Rashieme said it before I would admit it: "I'd feel like I never gave you the wedding that you wanted.... You want to get 'Disney-Princess-Married.'"
Now before we get all judgmental: yes, it's true. I want a special day. I want the ending of every romantic comedy movie I've ever balled through and the happily ever after of fairy tales and Disney movies. I've never claimed not to want that, even though I believe I am a strong and independent woman.
I don't need the wedding to be happy. I already have everything I need.
But I want it. I want just one perfect day where we can celebrate each other and our love.
And I do want to look beautiful. I have the perfect dress. The perfect colors. The perfect place.
Most importantly, though, I have the perfect man.
He's not perfect in actuality, but then again, none of us are.
But he's perfect for me.
He makes me smile when I want to cry. He listens when I need to vent. He tells it to me like it is when I am unjustifiably angry or irritated.
He makes me laugh. Every single day.
He is a wonderful father and will be an amazing husband.
Our road has definitely not been easy. But by the grace of God, through the twists and turns and sometimes seemingly insurmountable mountaintops and darkest valleys, we have arrived on the other side.
And I am not naïve enough to believe that married life will be full of less ups and downs than were the fourteen years (FOURTEEN YEARS!!) leading up to it.
But the difference, to me, is the commitment. The knowing that we are in this for good. That there is nothing I can't come to him with, and vice versa.
So in two weeks we'll be saying, "I do." "For better or for worse." "Till death do us part."
And I believe that not even death can separate those whose love is founded in Christ Jesus.
So I want to thank my Rashieme, for standing by me through thick and thin, for letting me get a little Bridezilla from time to time, and for putting Kaliah and I first each day. The last few months have been a challenge, with me hardly ever home. He's not complained once.
I also want to thank our families and our friends for all their help and support as it turned out that magical fairy tale weddings don't just fall neatly in your lap, you have to actually plan them. When you're not really a detail person (such as myself), the amount of work you have to do can come as somewhat of a shock. I'm going to call this wedding a success if everybody shows up with clothes on. And you know what?
It will all be okay.
Because most of all, I want to thank my God for bringing my soul mate back to me. Big wedding or small, rain or shine, over budget or under... what matters the most is that we love each other, and for that? I am eternally thankful to our creator, who imagined the moment that will occur two weeks from now (and all of the precious moments to follow) long before even I did.
Peas and carrots for life.
Actually, we're headed to a state park. It is my little girl, happy-ever-after, dream-come-true, knight-in-shining-armor fairy tale ending.
Except it's not--it's a beginning.
We contemplated the courthouse. But Rashieme said it before I would admit it: "I'd feel like I never gave you the wedding that you wanted.... You want to get 'Disney-Princess-Married.'"
Now before we get all judgmental: yes, it's true. I want a special day. I want the ending of every romantic comedy movie I've ever balled through and the happily ever after of fairy tales and Disney movies. I've never claimed not to want that, even though I believe I am a strong and independent woman.
I don't need the wedding to be happy. I already have everything I need.
But I want it. I want just one perfect day where we can celebrate each other and our love.
And I do want to look beautiful. I have the perfect dress. The perfect colors. The perfect place.
Most importantly, though, I have the perfect man.
He's not perfect in actuality, but then again, none of us are.
But he's perfect for me.
He makes me smile when I want to cry. He listens when I need to vent. He tells it to me like it is when I am unjustifiably angry or irritated.
He makes me laugh. Every single day.
He is a wonderful father and will be an amazing husband.
Our road has definitely not been easy. But by the grace of God, through the twists and turns and sometimes seemingly insurmountable mountaintops and darkest valleys, we have arrived on the other side.
And I am not naïve enough to believe that married life will be full of less ups and downs than were the fourteen years (FOURTEEN YEARS!!) leading up to it.
But the difference, to me, is the commitment. The knowing that we are in this for good. That there is nothing I can't come to him with, and vice versa.
So in two weeks we'll be saying, "I do." "For better or for worse." "Till death do us part."
And I believe that not even death can separate those whose love is founded in Christ Jesus.
So I want to thank my Rashieme, for standing by me through thick and thin, for letting me get a little Bridezilla from time to time, and for putting Kaliah and I first each day. The last few months have been a challenge, with me hardly ever home. He's not complained once.
I also want to thank our families and our friends for all their help and support as it turned out that magical fairy tale weddings don't just fall neatly in your lap, you have to actually plan them. When you're not really a detail person (such as myself), the amount of work you have to do can come as somewhat of a shock. I'm going to call this wedding a success if everybody shows up with clothes on. And you know what?
It will all be okay.
Because most of all, I want to thank my God for bringing my soul mate back to me. Big wedding or small, rain or shine, over budget or under... what matters the most is that we love each other, and for that? I am eternally thankful to our creator, who imagined the moment that will occur two weeks from now (and all of the precious moments to follow) long before even I did.
Peas and carrots for life.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
A Triumphant Return After an Unrealized Absence
So I'm glancing back over my blog entries, now that I've finally found a spare moment to blog, and I realize that, it has been nearly ONE WHOLE MONTH since I've posted anything.
Which shocked me, only because I can't believe I haven't updated this thing since my kid's birthday.
But also because my daughter's birthday seems like it was ages ago, yet it feels like I could not have possibly spent that much time not writing.
As a school teacher, during the summer time, I had a routine. I woke up. I read my Bible. I wrote. At least five pages. Everyday. And I ran. At least three miles, at least three times a week.
This summer, I am no longer a school teacher. I am the director of the Young Writers Summer Camps. I am a manager at the Cottage Café. I am a bride-to-be.
I am not writing on a daily basis (or, um, at all).
And running and I are in the midst of a lengthy separation, basically headed for divorce.
I can let the running go. I ran my marathon. I eat well (usually), and I get plenty of exercise at work. So I don't need to be a runner right now.
And temporarily, I suppose I've put my writing on hold (which is crazy for me, because I can't even think of myself in terms of who I am if I'm not a writer).
But the reality is, right now, I'm not writing.
What really strikes me about this situation is how sometimes, on the verge of so many new and exciting horizons, you become someone you never saw coming.
If you asked me who I was last year, I would have said: A mother. A Christian. A writer. A runner. A girl in love.
I'm still all of those things, but at the same time, some of them have slipped away from me. Of course I'm still a mother--but I'm not making home-cooked meals.
I am still a Christian--but I'm ashamed to admit that today was the first day in a couple weeks that I forced myself to find time for my Bible when I woke up. Why? Because I've been closing at the restaurant, getting home around three in the morning, to barely find a few moments with my pillow before waking up and rushing off to the university to see over everything there. And then the process repeats itself until I finally stumble into a day when I only have to work ONE JOB, and that's very exciting.
Nothing, and I mean, NOTHING, that I do is more important than my time with God. Yet somehow, I've been letting it be stolen from me, in the distractions of business, obligations, the desire to do a good job.
Nothing that I've embarked upon is something I don't want to do. It all matters, and I love it all. But I have got to say that I was truly astounded that this much time has passed this summer. And I need to remember that no matter how busy I get, no matter how many issues demand my attention:
I have got to keep my priorities straight, and I have got to stay true to who I am.
Because other wise, none of the rest of it will matter.
I saw a quote the other day that I'm taking to heart. It said: "I finally realized today that I cannot do everything. So I have decided to do as much as I can do and do it fabulously."
And that's it.
So today, I read my Bible. This is me writing.
I plan to do them both again tomorrow.
And no, I won't really see my daughter tonight, because she was asleep when I left, and she'll be asleep when I get home.
But maybe I will leave her a note or a little surprise, just to remind her, that I still love her, even in my absence.
And the wedding stuff--every time I start to stress about not having the right color flower petals, or wondering if my shoes are going to be that special, magical height in between nope-that's-taller-than-my-fiancé, and not-so-flat-that-I-have-no-added-height-and go-tripping-over-my-dress-and-rolling-down-the-aisle--
I am going to remember that none of it really matters, aside from the fact that we love each other, and I am finally marrying my best friend.
And as the day throws more at me, I will recite to myself one of my new life verses: Psalm 54:4-- "God is my help, surely the Lord will sustain me."
Without him, I'm just a hamster on a wheel. But with him?
Well, I'm doing the best I can, and I'm doing it fabulously.
Which shocked me, only because I can't believe I haven't updated this thing since my kid's birthday.
But also because my daughter's birthday seems like it was ages ago, yet it feels like I could not have possibly spent that much time not writing.
As a school teacher, during the summer time, I had a routine. I woke up. I read my Bible. I wrote. At least five pages. Everyday. And I ran. At least three miles, at least three times a week.
This summer, I am no longer a school teacher. I am the director of the Young Writers Summer Camps. I am a manager at the Cottage Café. I am a bride-to-be.
I am not writing on a daily basis (or, um, at all).
And running and I are in the midst of a lengthy separation, basically headed for divorce.
I can let the running go. I ran my marathon. I eat well (usually), and I get plenty of exercise at work. So I don't need to be a runner right now.
And temporarily, I suppose I've put my writing on hold (which is crazy for me, because I can't even think of myself in terms of who I am if I'm not a writer).
But the reality is, right now, I'm not writing.
What really strikes me about this situation is how sometimes, on the verge of so many new and exciting horizons, you become someone you never saw coming.
If you asked me who I was last year, I would have said: A mother. A Christian. A writer. A runner. A girl in love.
I'm still all of those things, but at the same time, some of them have slipped away from me. Of course I'm still a mother--but I'm not making home-cooked meals.
I am still a Christian--but I'm ashamed to admit that today was the first day in a couple weeks that I forced myself to find time for my Bible when I woke up. Why? Because I've been closing at the restaurant, getting home around three in the morning, to barely find a few moments with my pillow before waking up and rushing off to the university to see over everything there. And then the process repeats itself until I finally stumble into a day when I only have to work ONE JOB, and that's very exciting.
Nothing, and I mean, NOTHING, that I do is more important than my time with God. Yet somehow, I've been letting it be stolen from me, in the distractions of business, obligations, the desire to do a good job.
Nothing that I've embarked upon is something I don't want to do. It all matters, and I love it all. But I have got to say that I was truly astounded that this much time has passed this summer. And I need to remember that no matter how busy I get, no matter how many issues demand my attention:
I have got to keep my priorities straight, and I have got to stay true to who I am.
Because other wise, none of the rest of it will matter.
I saw a quote the other day that I'm taking to heart. It said: "I finally realized today that I cannot do everything. So I have decided to do as much as I can do and do it fabulously."
And that's it.
So today, I read my Bible. This is me writing.
I plan to do them both again tomorrow.
And no, I won't really see my daughter tonight, because she was asleep when I left, and she'll be asleep when I get home.
But maybe I will leave her a note or a little surprise, just to remind her, that I still love her, even in my absence.
And the wedding stuff--every time I start to stress about not having the right color flower petals, or wondering if my shoes are going to be that special, magical height in between nope-that's-taller-than-my-fiancé, and not-so-flat-that-I-have-no-added-height-and go-tripping-over-my-dress-and-rolling-down-the-aisle--
I am going to remember that none of it really matters, aside from the fact that we love each other, and I am finally marrying my best friend.
And as the day throws more at me, I will recite to myself one of my new life verses: Psalm 54:4-- "God is my help, surely the Lord will sustain me."
Without him, I'm just a hamster on a wheel. But with him?
Well, I'm doing the best I can, and I'm doing it fabulously.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Nine Years Later...
Yesterday, we celebrated my daughter's ninth birthday.
Nine.
I swear, I don't know where the time goes. It seems like it could not have been that it was nearly a decade ago that I found out I was pregnant. I can't believe I've been a parent for nine whole years. It hardly seems possible, when I can close my eyes and remember so clearly the way her smooth cheek felt against mine as I held her close and rocked her to sleep. All those milestones rush by--first smile, first words, first steps... first day of school, first report card, first dance recital.... soon we'll be into the perilous world of middle school, and it will be all I can do not to have a complete and total nervous breakdown, as I KNOW what happens in middle school.
Sometimes I don't feel like I'm even a grown-up yet. But then, I think about the fact that I have a nine-year-old-- a smart, healthy, generally well-mannered nine-year-old daughter... and I guess that I must have grown up myself somewhere along the way.
Out of all the women out there who could have probably done it better, God blessed me by picking me to be her mom.
I'm not the super organized soccer mom who's the queen of scheduling.
I'm not the all-organic health food nut who makes sure there's no sugar in the house or in her kid's diet.
But I am a mom whose imperfect love is all my child needs, by the grace of God.
What our children need more than stuff, is us.
So yesterday, the day after her birthday party, and the very first day of summer break, we had a mommy/daughter day. We went to Bethany Beach in the midst of summer tourist season, because that was where my daughter wanted to go (and even though I've been boycotting them in the summer season due to a ridiculously unfair parking ticket two seasons ago, I agreed, because it was what my daughter wanted).
We ate D.B. Fries. I lounged on the beach while she frolicked in the ocean. We had smoothies from TCBY. It was an ordinary day, but a beautiful one.
When we got home to pick up Daddy to go out to a family dinner, she commented, "This is the best day of my life."
Not the day before, fun as it was, spent at a horse stable and lavished with gifts from us and her friends.
Just the simple gift of being together and doing what she wanted to do. That was enough.
Thank you, Kaliah, for being my daughter. You always remind me what the best things in life are. If I never did anything else again in this world, I still would leave it happy, knowing that I brought you into it.
Happy Birthday, my love.
Nine.
I swear, I don't know where the time goes. It seems like it could not have been that it was nearly a decade ago that I found out I was pregnant. I can't believe I've been a parent for nine whole years. It hardly seems possible, when I can close my eyes and remember so clearly the way her smooth cheek felt against mine as I held her close and rocked her to sleep. All those milestones rush by--first smile, first words, first steps... first day of school, first report card, first dance recital.... soon we'll be into the perilous world of middle school, and it will be all I can do not to have a complete and total nervous breakdown, as I KNOW what happens in middle school.
Sometimes I don't feel like I'm even a grown-up yet. But then, I think about the fact that I have a nine-year-old-- a smart, healthy, generally well-mannered nine-year-old daughter... and I guess that I must have grown up myself somewhere along the way.
Out of all the women out there who could have probably done it better, God blessed me by picking me to be her mom.
I'm not the super organized soccer mom who's the queen of scheduling.
I'm not the all-organic health food nut who makes sure there's no sugar in the house or in her kid's diet.
But I am a mom whose imperfect love is all my child needs, by the grace of God.
What our children need more than stuff, is us.
So yesterday, the day after her birthday party, and the very first day of summer break, we had a mommy/daughter day. We went to Bethany Beach in the midst of summer tourist season, because that was where my daughter wanted to go (and even though I've been boycotting them in the summer season due to a ridiculously unfair parking ticket two seasons ago, I agreed, because it was what my daughter wanted).
We ate D.B. Fries. I lounged on the beach while she frolicked in the ocean. We had smoothies from TCBY. It was an ordinary day, but a beautiful one.
When we got home to pick up Daddy to go out to a family dinner, she commented, "This is the best day of my life."
Not the day before, fun as it was, spent at a horse stable and lavished with gifts from us and her friends.
Just the simple gift of being together and doing what she wanted to do. That was enough.
Thank you, Kaliah, for being my daughter. You always remind me what the best things in life are. If I never did anything else again in this world, I still would leave it happy, knowing that I brought you into it.
Happy Birthday, my love.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Father's Day Funny!
I thought long and hard about posting this one... first of all, because as a born-again Christian, it is not my intent to glorify drinking. I hope that's not the message that comes across here, because while I don't have a problem with social drinking, I believe that overindulgence takes away from the fullness of life that Jesus wants us to experience. And obviously, many people who drink end up battling addictions and losing control of their lives in what started as a seemingly harmless recreational activity. Secondly, I didn't want to negatively paint a picture of my late father, because in this story, he comes off as a bit silly.
But here's the truth. My dad was a drinker. It was a part of who he was. To me, it never defined him. He was so much more than that, and I can honestly say that I hope he's able to enjoy a round or two in heaven, because he took great pleasure in doing so here on earth, and from my point of view, he wasn't less of a father or man for doing so. Furthermore, in an attempt to create humor, it may seem that I'm exaggerating in this story... but I'm not. I don't mean to write AT my father's expense. It is actually these colorful memories that have stayed with me that, having lost him, help me to cherish his memory and love him even better. So I intend no disrespect with this story, it's actually quite the opposite.
This story, though never before shared online, was actually the foundation for my latest book in progress, This is Going to Sound Like Fiction. I wrote it during a winter writing retreat, and literally, before tentatively sharing at our open mic, I explained, "This is going to sound like fiction... but it's not." The response I received that night was so encouraging and warm, I actually began weaving together a collection of similar stories that explore the everyday craziness of life.
So yes, this story is a little crazy. No, we don't all come off as perfect in the version I'm about to tell. But Dad, if you know my heart, you know I share this in love, to bring a smile to someone else's face. You were much more than just a partier--you were a great father, a hard worker, and a fantastic friend. But your colorful antics were always a reason for me to smile... so I hope you don't mind that I share this with the world. I love you and miss you. Happy Father's Day.
But here's the truth. My dad was a drinker. It was a part of who he was. To me, it never defined him. He was so much more than that, and I can honestly say that I hope he's able to enjoy a round or two in heaven, because he took great pleasure in doing so here on earth, and from my point of view, he wasn't less of a father or man for doing so. Furthermore, in an attempt to create humor, it may seem that I'm exaggerating in this story... but I'm not. I don't mean to write AT my father's expense. It is actually these colorful memories that have stayed with me that, having lost him, help me to cherish his memory and love him even better. So I intend no disrespect with this story, it's actually quite the opposite.
This story, though never before shared online, was actually the foundation for my latest book in progress, This is Going to Sound Like Fiction. I wrote it during a winter writing retreat, and literally, before tentatively sharing at our open mic, I explained, "This is going to sound like fiction... but it's not." The response I received that night was so encouraging and warm, I actually began weaving together a collection of similar stories that explore the everyday craziness of life.
So yes, this story is a little crazy. No, we don't all come off as perfect in the version I'm about to tell. But Dad, if you know my heart, you know I share this in love, to bring a smile to someone else's face. You were much more than just a partier--you were a great father, a hard worker, and a fantastic friend. But your colorful antics were always a reason for me to smile... so I hope you don't mind that I share this with the world. I love you and miss you. Happy Father's Day.
The Lebaron Meets A Sad End
“So we’re
sitting on the porch, chillin, hanging out, and all of a sudden Dad comes
bursting in. He coulda been drunk, or
maybe not, with Dad, it was hard to tell, so who knew?”
I laugh,
pausing my brother in the middle of his story, as he stops to grin and
nod. We’re standing in my kitchen, Dad’s
kitchen, except I’ve got new hardwood floors and shiny stainless steel
appliances, and the walls are a soft yellow now. I’ve heard this story before, and I love
it. I listen to Johnny tell it again.
“So anyway,
Dad comes busting in all upset. ‘Johnny,
Johnny, we gotta go now! We gotta get my
car out of the ditch down the road!'”
I can
picture it—a younger version of my brother with his brown curls cut short,
sitting around with his twenty-somethings friends, maybe drinking, maybe
smoking, all wasting time in the leisurely way of the young before careers,
marriages, and social obligations. My
father—six foot two, Albert Einstein hair, wrinkled and reddened but kind
face—yanking open the creaking sliding glass door, stumbling onto the porch,
squinting and glaring at the group of boys lounged about in mismatching outdoor
dining chairs. His naturally booming
voice louder than usual from that extra round at Smitty’s and the commotion
he’s just been through.
I smile at
Johnny. “How’d he get home?” I ask,
forgetting this part of the story.
Johnny
grins. He looks a lot like my
father. He, too, has been drinking. His brown eyes are glassy, his pale
complexion pinkened. “He got a ride from
one of your high school friends!
Remember?”
I literally
laugh out loud as I rack my mind trying to recall which of my former cheer
squad teammates experienced what had to have been the very memorable event of
picking up my sixty-six-year-old hyperactive father, rescuing him from a
two-mile walk down a tree choked one lane road, black as coal during the
night. I bet that was a long five
minutes in that girl’s life. God bless
her.
We can’t
remember which of my friends it was, and Johnny moves on with the story. “Now mind you, this was Dad’s convertible,
the Lebaron, but to Dad, this is the car to end all cars. This is the f-in (my brother does not say
f-in, but I can’t quite bring myself to say what he actually said) Mercedes
Benz of cars in Dad’s eyes!”
I remember
this car, though I do not recall ever riding in it. A boxy, early nineties red soft-top
convertible, my Dad’s pride and joy. Dad
wasn’t a car guy, but I think he saw this car as a chick magnet of sorts. I wonder if he thought of himself as Fonzie
or James Dean as he cruised Rt. 54 to Smitty’s, trying on different pick-up
lines with the fifty-plus crowd of white-haired women.
On this
particular evening, Dad had wrecked the car in a curve that was so steep it was
practically a right angle. A common
mistake. Tourists and teenagers who took
the turn with too much speed were forever being fished out of that ditch. I’d landed in it once myself when my best
friend went flying around it on a rainy morning a few months after getting her
driver’s license.
After what I
imagine to be much yelling and excitement, Dad convinced Johnny and a friend to
drive him back to where a buddy was towing my Dad’s precious LeBaron out of the
ditch, so Johnny could drive it home.
But when they got there, the cops had beat him to the scene.
“Who’s car
is this?” Johnny sneered, an unkind impersonation of the policeman who had
arrived on the scene. Cops, in general,
hated my brother, with his punk t-shirts and baggy jeans and multiple
earrings. “So I said, ‘It’s my father’s
sir.’ ‘This isn’t your car?’” He
demanded, changing his voice into the high pitched snarl he was using for the
police man. “ ‘No sir,’” (a humble
voice) “ ‘it’s my father’s.’ ‘Where’s your father? How’d this car get in this ditch? He drunk?
You drunk?’ ‘No, sir. We’ve not been drinking. My dad just took the turn too fast and ended
up in the ditch is all, I think. I
wasn’t with him.’ ‘Where’s your father
now?’ ‘He’s in my car, sir. Shaken up from the accident. He’s elderly and frail,’” which was the most
ridiculous lie yet to have come out of my brother’s mouth, for, though he had
silver hair and a lined face, my father moved with the energy of a high school
quarterback and was built like an ox.
Frail was a perfect antonym.
The cop
wasn’t buying it. Eventually the friend
Dad called to tow him showed up, confirmed that the ditched LeBaron was indeed
John Meister’s (the elder, not the younger’s), and I’m sure, fed up with the
entire situation, the police officer finally just called it a day and ordered the car impounded.
Amazingly, no one got arrested.
But the
story got even better. Adamant that his
chick magnet be returned to him immediately, Dad insisted that Johnny get up at
the crack ass of dawn (well, maybe seven o’clock, but to my partying twenty-one-year-old brother, that was essentially the same thing) in order to chauffer him
to the impound lot so that his LeBaron could be rescued.
“Dad paid
$250 to get that car out that day,”
Johnny continued, an incredulous smile brimming beneath his words, “And that
very same night…” he was shaking his head.
I was
laughing so hard tears were stinging the corners of my eyes. After all his valiant efforts to save the
LeBaron from first the ditch, and then the certain doom of impoundment, his
insistence that this be resolved absolutely immediately….
That very
same night he got this aging convertible home safe and sound, parked lovingly
in the driveway—
“BAM!” Johnny
managed through choking laughter.
“Smashed by a tree!”
Our house,
you see, sits in the middle of an acre of woods, mostly giant, stretching
pines, hundreds of feet tall. The evening that they had driven the Lebaron home, a thunderstorm had rolled in, causing branches to fall and trees to sway. As had periodically happened when we grew up, sometimes the whipping winds would even cause and older tree to crack and fall. On this particular occasion, one such tree had fallen on the LeBaron the same night it had been returned to my
father. So a mere hours after it had
been secured and returned to him, mother nature and/ or fate thwarted my father
once again, smashing his beloved car into smithereens with an unassuming pine
tree.
Maybe some
things just aren’t meant to be. Or maybe
my father was a magnet for irony. All I
know is that despite his most diligent attempts, the LeBaron met a sad, sad
end.
Still, it
makes for a great story.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Ch-ch-ch-changes!
Yes, I know, my blogging has been suffering lately.
To the point of fans (yes, apparently, I DO have fans...) asking me what happened to my blog.
Alright, "fans" with an "s" might be a stretch. But one person asked, I was flattered, and so I'm going with the notion that other people might also be on the same page and be wondering what happened to my writing.
What happened to my writing is what happened to my life! Which is wonderful, exciting, terrifying, and exhausting all at the same time, but mostly, right now, exhausting.
For anyone who hasn't heard, I've accepted a doctoral assistantship with Salisbury University. In exchange for working with the Salisbury education department faculty in conducting research in the field, I'll be granted a tuition waiver.
Yes, I was blessed enough to be given a full ride as I earn my doctorate.
Words can't express how excited I am for this opportunity.
But, it's also a bit scary. Per the terms of the contract, I'm not allowed to be employed full-time elsewhere. So, just like He has always done for me, God showed up in an incredible way and opened doors for me to make up the difference in income.
The Cottage Café, an awesome restaurant with which I've been employed as a part-timer server for the last seven years, made me a front-of-the house manager. Full-time in the summer. Dropping back to part-time around my schooling schedule come fall, with the understanding that my duties to the education department receive priority.
I'll still be coming up a little short of the teaching salary I was receiving, but when you consider that I should be coming out the other side of this four years later with a doctorate degree valued at approximately $120 grand for FREE? I'd say it's worth it. No questions asked.
Even my principal said I would have to be a fool to turn it down, so she understands why I'm leaving.
But in the mean time--with the end of the school year closing, and all the emotional implications and chaotic end-of-year work, with training for my new position at the restaurant on the weekends and having basically said goodbye to such a thing as a day off for the past two weeks and at least one more week to come, with trying to ensure my responsibilities to the Young Writers program aren't suffering in the process--well, to say the least...
Things have gotten a tad bit crazy. Maybe even crazier than usual.
Here's an example of how exhausting last weekend was.
Saturday morning, Oak Ridge Baptist Church held the first ever Stride for Supplies, a 5k race I helped organize. Because I wanted to be there to help set everything up, I got up at 4:30 am. It was a great time of fitness, fun, and fellowship. We also raised tons of money for our partner schools to purchase school supplies with.
Sidebar, I also won my age group--in my first race after October's full marathon!
After the race, I tried to manage a quick hour or two of relaxation at the beach, as Shieme and Kaliah were out of town for Rashieme's grandmother's birthday. So I went alone figuring it would be some much needed down time to relax.
This didn't really turn out to be the case, thanks to the group of high school graduates lounging out behind me who were BELLOWING out idiotic conversations in which the F-bomb was dropped in every other sentence multiple times. I heard not a single intelligent comment throughout the forty minutes I endured attempting to ignore them. It was impossible to block them out, and it was as if it had never occurred to them that they weren't the only people on the beach, and that the multiple families surrounding them with small children might not be interested in hearing about their drinking, sex lives, drinking, and astute observations of the human condition that couldn't be expressed without multiple mentionings of the terms "Dude, f***, bro, yo, f****," etc.
I know I was once young(er) and dumb, but this sad, shallow example of "celebrating" life following graduation by perpetuating the stereotype of idiotic drinking as the norm for the 18 and over young people crowd really made me worried for our future.
Anyway, onward I went to work. I ended up closing and getting home at a little after three in the morning. I didn't fall asleep until after 4 am, at which point I realized (a little deliriously) that I had been up for nearly 24 hours.
All that to come to this point: After working another shift on Sunday and then heading to one of my final days of teaching on Monday, I arrived home completely exhausted. Rashieme took one look at me and ordered me to bed. I complied, and when I woke up, I panicked.
The clock said 6:50. Kaliah's bus comes at 7:15. I flew out of bed, skidding into the dining room and immediately reprimanding my daughter.
"Kaliah! It's 6:50!"
Why was she wearing her clothing from last night??
Hmm... maybe because it was still "last night."
I had automatically assumed that I'd been asleep for the entire evening and somehow missed my alarm, when in fact, I'd barely been down for two hours.
Lifestyles of the totally exhausted.
But alas, all this is coming to an end.
Yesterday was my last day with students. Maybe ever. At least for four years. My head and heart are full of emotions. This was a great year to possibly end my teaching career. I will truly miss these kids, and my work family at MMS. But I'm looking forward to my next adventures. I'm looking forward to new possibilities and opportunities. I'm looking forward to a more flexible schedule, and to, eventually, more time with my family and less time grading. Hopefully more time for my writing.
But mostly?
As far as the immediate future is concerned?
I'm looking forward to a few good naps.
To the point of fans (yes, apparently, I DO have fans...) asking me what happened to my blog.
Alright, "fans" with an "s" might be a stretch. But one person asked, I was flattered, and so I'm going with the notion that other people might also be on the same page and be wondering what happened to my writing.
What happened to my writing is what happened to my life! Which is wonderful, exciting, terrifying, and exhausting all at the same time, but mostly, right now, exhausting.
For anyone who hasn't heard, I've accepted a doctoral assistantship with Salisbury University. In exchange for working with the Salisbury education department faculty in conducting research in the field, I'll be granted a tuition waiver.
Yes, I was blessed enough to be given a full ride as I earn my doctorate.
Words can't express how excited I am for this opportunity.
But, it's also a bit scary. Per the terms of the contract, I'm not allowed to be employed full-time elsewhere. So, just like He has always done for me, God showed up in an incredible way and opened doors for me to make up the difference in income.
The Cottage Café, an awesome restaurant with which I've been employed as a part-timer server for the last seven years, made me a front-of-the house manager. Full-time in the summer. Dropping back to part-time around my schooling schedule come fall, with the understanding that my duties to the education department receive priority.
I'll still be coming up a little short of the teaching salary I was receiving, but when you consider that I should be coming out the other side of this four years later with a doctorate degree valued at approximately $120 grand for FREE? I'd say it's worth it. No questions asked.
Even my principal said I would have to be a fool to turn it down, so she understands why I'm leaving.
But in the mean time--with the end of the school year closing, and all the emotional implications and chaotic end-of-year work, with training for my new position at the restaurant on the weekends and having basically said goodbye to such a thing as a day off for the past two weeks and at least one more week to come, with trying to ensure my responsibilities to the Young Writers program aren't suffering in the process--well, to say the least...
Things have gotten a tad bit crazy. Maybe even crazier than usual.
Here's an example of how exhausting last weekend was.
Saturday morning, Oak Ridge Baptist Church held the first ever Stride for Supplies, a 5k race I helped organize. Because I wanted to be there to help set everything up, I got up at 4:30 am. It was a great time of fitness, fun, and fellowship. We also raised tons of money for our partner schools to purchase school supplies with.
Sidebar, I also won my age group--in my first race after October's full marathon!
After the race, I tried to manage a quick hour or two of relaxation at the beach, as Shieme and Kaliah were out of town for Rashieme's grandmother's birthday. So I went alone figuring it would be some much needed down time to relax.
This didn't really turn out to be the case, thanks to the group of high school graduates lounging out behind me who were BELLOWING out idiotic conversations in which the F-bomb was dropped in every other sentence multiple times. I heard not a single intelligent comment throughout the forty minutes I endured attempting to ignore them. It was impossible to block them out, and it was as if it had never occurred to them that they weren't the only people on the beach, and that the multiple families surrounding them with small children might not be interested in hearing about their drinking, sex lives, drinking, and astute observations of the human condition that couldn't be expressed without multiple mentionings of the terms "Dude, f***, bro, yo, f****," etc.
I know I was once young(er) and dumb, but this sad, shallow example of "celebrating" life following graduation by perpetuating the stereotype of idiotic drinking as the norm for the 18 and over young people crowd really made me worried for our future.
Anyway, onward I went to work. I ended up closing and getting home at a little after three in the morning. I didn't fall asleep until after 4 am, at which point I realized (a little deliriously) that I had been up for nearly 24 hours.
All that to come to this point: After working another shift on Sunday and then heading to one of my final days of teaching on Monday, I arrived home completely exhausted. Rashieme took one look at me and ordered me to bed. I complied, and when I woke up, I panicked.
The clock said 6:50. Kaliah's bus comes at 7:15. I flew out of bed, skidding into the dining room and immediately reprimanding my daughter.
"Kaliah! It's 6:50!"
Why was she wearing her clothing from last night??
Hmm... maybe because it was still "last night."
I had automatically assumed that I'd been asleep for the entire evening and somehow missed my alarm, when in fact, I'd barely been down for two hours.
Lifestyles of the totally exhausted.
But alas, all this is coming to an end.
Yesterday was my last day with students. Maybe ever. At least for four years. My head and heart are full of emotions. This was a great year to possibly end my teaching career. I will truly miss these kids, and my work family at MMS. But I'm looking forward to my next adventures. I'm looking forward to new possibilities and opportunities. I'm looking forward to a more flexible schedule, and to, eventually, more time with my family and less time grading. Hopefully more time for my writing.
But mostly?
As far as the immediate future is concerned?
I'm looking forward to a few good naps.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Eleven Always Was My Favorite Number...
Eleven days.
That's how many teaching days remain in this school year, which was one of the best of my career.
This year also happens to be my last year in the classroom, for possibly at least four (and perhaps even more) years to come.
I've been accepted into Salisbury University's inaugural doctoral cohort in the Literacy Curriculum Theory and Instruction Ed.D. program.
But wait, there's more.
As of this week, I received notice that I'll be receiving a graduate research assistantship. This means I'm blessed enough to get a full tuition waiver, and I'll earn a modest stipend in return for performing scholarly research.
I am overcome with gratitude at being offered this opportunity. I'm praying that I'll find success and fulfillment in this next chapter of my professional life.
And, it was time for me to leave the classroom. Though there are aspects of teaching that I'll always be in love with, I am not a career teacher. I've always known that... it's not that I don't enjoy teaching. It's the politics, the external factors, and many, many other contexts surrounding our profession that I can't stand.
I feel like this new opportunity will really offer me a chance to fully explore my talents and make a broader contribution to the field. I don't want to add to the hoops teachers have to jump through. I don't want to become someone so ingrained in theory that I forget what it is to actually put it into practice.
But I do know that I am a far better writer than I am a teacher. I know I have the power to use words to make great things happen. It's a gift from God that's not fully being used right now. But I believe with all my heart that He is opening this door for me, and He has plans better for me than even I can imagine, plans that exceed my wildest dreams.
I want to revolutionize the way we teach writing.
One of the biggest compliments I ever received from a former student went something like this:
"Miss Meister! You made writing click for me. All of the sudden I could just write what I would say. You're the bomb."
That's my end-of-year-teaching-brain trying to quote that reference, which is from the lovely and talented Rebecca Witzke, whom I had the pleasure of teaching several years ago.
And I have had other students reach out years after having taught them. Students that I wouldn't have necessarily thought I had that great of an impact on. Ones who told me how much I helped them, how much they appreciated me. These students praised my teaching in some cases, but even more special to me, they valued the relationship we'd shared as teacher and student. I was someone they trusted. Someone who made them feel safe. Someone who respected them and treasured them and gave them confidence that they deserved to own, because they were special and unique and wonderful.
This is the part of teaching I'll miss the most.
I have eleven days left with a group of kids that have really touched my heart. Hands down, they're the best group of 7th graders I've ever had. They've made me laugh. They've made me cry (in a good way). I've experienced that not-so-good crying throughout my teaching career, too. And that's okay.
You can't hike through the mountains by staying on the peaks. You gotta hit those low points, too.
So, in eleven days, this journey will be over. The good. The bad. The precious. The mistakes, the deadlines, the testing, the everything...
It will all be behind me.
I couldn't be more thrilled with my chance to learn, to grow, and then to make a huge difference. But I'm also saddened when I think that this might be the last group of kids I work with face to face on a daily basis.
I'm relieved in a way. No more grading. No more disciplining. No more nerve-racking parent phone calls.
But it's so bittersweet.
No more coffee mugs or homemade goodies at Christmas time. No more high-fives or hugs for a job well done. No more comforting someone who needs it, with a smile or an encouraging word.
Who knows? Maybe I will end up back in the classroom. Maybe I won't. Either way, I will make these next eleven days count. And to commemorate the end of an era (one decade of my life), I wouldn't be me if I didn't share a little Everyday Crazy, Classroom Edition to celebrate my exit/hiatus from public education.
And Yes, This is Going To Sound Like Fiction...
(But it's not)...
May you always find success in whatever it is you do. Whatever your passion is... follow it.
And don't be discouraged when the crazy follows you around from time to time.
Because if crazy is finding you?
Well, that's a surefire sign that you're alive. Because cray cray is everywhere.
And thus ends my homage to teaching. Well, in this blog post, anyway. May the work I attempt to do in this next chapter of my life live up to the quality of the people who give it their all each and everyday. Thank you, teachers. Thank you, co-workers.
And most especially, thank you students, particularly those of you whom I had the privilege of teaching.
That's how many teaching days remain in this school year, which was one of the best of my career.
This year also happens to be my last year in the classroom, for possibly at least four (and perhaps even more) years to come.
I've been accepted into Salisbury University's inaugural doctoral cohort in the Literacy Curriculum Theory and Instruction Ed.D. program.
But wait, there's more.
As of this week, I received notice that I'll be receiving a graduate research assistantship. This means I'm blessed enough to get a full tuition waiver, and I'll earn a modest stipend in return for performing scholarly research.
I am overcome with gratitude at being offered this opportunity. I'm praying that I'll find success and fulfillment in this next chapter of my professional life.
And, it was time for me to leave the classroom. Though there are aspects of teaching that I'll always be in love with, I am not a career teacher. I've always known that... it's not that I don't enjoy teaching. It's the politics, the external factors, and many, many other contexts surrounding our profession that I can't stand.
I feel like this new opportunity will really offer me a chance to fully explore my talents and make a broader contribution to the field. I don't want to add to the hoops teachers have to jump through. I don't want to become someone so ingrained in theory that I forget what it is to actually put it into practice.
But I do know that I am a far better writer than I am a teacher. I know I have the power to use words to make great things happen. It's a gift from God that's not fully being used right now. But I believe with all my heart that He is opening this door for me, and He has plans better for me than even I can imagine, plans that exceed my wildest dreams.
I want to revolutionize the way we teach writing.
One of the biggest compliments I ever received from a former student went something like this:
"Miss Meister! You made writing click for me. All of the sudden I could just write what I would say. You're the bomb."
That's my end-of-year-teaching-brain trying to quote that reference, which is from the lovely and talented Rebecca Witzke, whom I had the pleasure of teaching several years ago.
And I have had other students reach out years after having taught them. Students that I wouldn't have necessarily thought I had that great of an impact on. Ones who told me how much I helped them, how much they appreciated me. These students praised my teaching in some cases, but even more special to me, they valued the relationship we'd shared as teacher and student. I was someone they trusted. Someone who made them feel safe. Someone who respected them and treasured them and gave them confidence that they deserved to own, because they were special and unique and wonderful.
This is the part of teaching I'll miss the most.
I have eleven days left with a group of kids that have really touched my heart. Hands down, they're the best group of 7th graders I've ever had. They've made me laugh. They've made me cry (in a good way). I've experienced that not-so-good crying throughout my teaching career, too. And that's okay.
You can't hike through the mountains by staying on the peaks. You gotta hit those low points, too.
So, in eleven days, this journey will be over. The good. The bad. The precious. The mistakes, the deadlines, the testing, the everything...
It will all be behind me.
I couldn't be more thrilled with my chance to learn, to grow, and then to make a huge difference. But I'm also saddened when I think that this might be the last group of kids I work with face to face on a daily basis.
I'm relieved in a way. No more grading. No more disciplining. No more nerve-racking parent phone calls.
But it's so bittersweet.
No more coffee mugs or homemade goodies at Christmas time. No more high-fives or hugs for a job well done. No more comforting someone who needs it, with a smile or an encouraging word.
Who knows? Maybe I will end up back in the classroom. Maybe I won't. Either way, I will make these next eleven days count. And to commemorate the end of an era (one decade of my life), I wouldn't be me if I didn't share a little Everyday Crazy, Classroom Edition to celebrate my exit/hiatus from public education.
And Yes, This is Going To Sound Like Fiction...
(But it's not)...
Why English Teachers Die Young
I once
received a chain email entitled “28 Reasons Why English Teachers Die
Young.” Supposedly, it contained actual
similes and metaphors used in high school students’ essays and stories written
for English classes. I’m not sure of its
authenticity, but I am sure that it was hilarious. I was (I think) a freshman in college when I
first received it, and I remember searching the internet on a couple different
occasions in the later years to find comfort in its humor as the stresses of
studying for the occupation and then actually performing the job on a daily
basis began to wear on me. I was so fond
of it, I printed a copy and hung it on one of bulletin boards when I taught
tenth grade, reading it to my honors class on the first day of school to give
them an idea of what not to do (and to also show them that I wasn’t some
grammar-correcting-Nazi-robot with no sense of humor).
Some of my
favorite snippets from said email include:
Reason #5: She had a deep, throaty,
genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
Reason #14: Long separated by cruel
fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other
like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55
mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
Reason #20: The plan was simple, like
my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
The longer I’ve continued teaching,
the stronger my conviction has become in believing that yes, English teachers
are probably more inclined to die young than those who’ve chosen differing
career paths. I have read my share of
laugh out loud, terribly poorly written analogies and explanations in my
students’ papers, not to mention careless errors and typos that make me want to
smack my forehead. But what’s more likely
to lead me to early graying isn’t so much what they say in writing as what my
kids say out loud. Particularly since
making the switch to middle school, I’ve experienced this phenomenon. So, I represent this irrefutable evidence:
Legitimate Reasons English Teachers Will Die
Young: Actual Conversations with Middle
School Students
(Names other
than my own have been changed to protect the innocent)
1. Art: “Ms.
Meister, I don’t understand this question.”
Me: “Let’s read it together, Art.”
Art: “Select the word that doesn’t follow the
rhyme scheme.”
Me: “Okay, so what does that mean?”
Art: “Um… pick the word that doesn’t rhyme?”
Me: “Very good, Art. So what are your choices?”
Art: “Sun.
Flower. Done. Run.”
Me: “So what do you think?”
Art: “Well… I think maybe flower, because it
doesn’t sound like the others.”
Me: “Uh-huh…”
Art: “But maybe sun, because a flower needs sun to
survive?”
In my
head: No, no, no, no, no, no, no!
2. This one occurs on a daily basis. It is the primary reason I am insane:
Me: “Okay, guys, turn to page 23, and complete
problems 1, 2, and 3.”
Random
Student: “What page do we turn to?”
Me: “23.”
Another
student: “What problems do we do?”
Me: “1,2, and 3.”
One
minute later…
Yet
another student: “What page?”
Me: “23.”
Other
student, who, for the record, wasn’t talking, just staring off vacantly into
space as all this was going on: “What
are we doing?”
Chorus
of angry classmates: “Problems 1,2, and 3.”
Student: “Oh, ok.
What page?”
3. This lovely gem came from the joys I
experienced assistant coaching the middle school track team:
Me: “400!”
Richard: “Coach, how far we running?”
Me: “400, Richard.”
Richard: “What’s a 400?”
Me: “One lap.”
Whistle
is blown. One lap later, I get set to
blow it again: “800.”
Richard: “Coach, how far we running?”
Me: “800, Richard.”
Richard: “What’s an 800?”
Me: “Two laps, Richard.”
Two laps
later: “200.”
Richard: “Coach, how far—”
Me: “200, Richard. Come on, this is the third month of
track. You should know how far a 200
is.”
Richard: Blank stare.
Me: “Half a lap, Richard. We get math, right? One lap is a 400. Two laps is 400 plus 400, so that’s 800. So if I ask you for a 200…”
Richard: “How far we running, coach?”
4. Kevin: “Ms.
Meister, he won’t give me my pencil back.”
Me: “David, give him his pencil back.”
David: “It’s my pencil. Not his.”
Me: “Kevin, whose pencil is it?”
Kevin: “It’s mine.
I need him to give it back.”
Me: “David, give him his pencil back.”
David: “Ms. Meister, it’s mine.”
Me: “Look, guys, I’m not your baby-sitter or the
pencil police. Work it out!”
Kevin: “But Ms. Meister, we called you over here
because we can’t work it out.”
5. Shakima:
“Ms. Meister, is your daughter mixed?”
Me: “Yes.
She’s bi-racial.”
Shakima: “So her dad is black?”
Me: “Yes.
He’s African-American.”
Shakima: “Mmm!
Ms. Meister got her vibration on!!!”
…. I
still don’t know what that means, but it makes my life sound a whole lot more
interesting than it actually is.
6. Me:
“Shaquir, what are you doing?”
Shaquir: “I’m getting ready for the game.”
Me: “The game isn’t for hours. And you’re in English class. Take your helmet off.”
Shaquir: “I need to be ready.”
Me: “No one is… um… trying to tackle you right
now.”
Shaquir: “I gotta get my mind right for the game.”
Me: “And the helmet helps do that?”
Shaquir: “Yep.”
Me: “Take the helmet off.”
As always, thank you for reading. If you are a teacher, thank you for what you do. If you are a student, remember... your teachers are people too. We do what we do because we love you. We want so much for you. More, sometimes, than you want for yourselves. We are on your side, even when it doesn't feel like it. Every time you were dissatisfied with a grade? We gave it to you because you could do better. Because we knew you would do better. Because when you earned what you were after for the first time, we knew what that would mean. How that would feel.May you always find success in whatever it is you do. Whatever your passion is... follow it.
And don't be discouraged when the crazy follows you around from time to time.
Because if crazy is finding you?
Well, that's a surefire sign that you're alive. Because cray cray is everywhere.
And thus ends my homage to teaching. Well, in this blog post, anyway. May the work I attempt to do in this next chapter of my life live up to the quality of the people who give it their all each and everyday. Thank you, teachers. Thank you, co-workers.
And most especially, thank you students, particularly those of you whom I had the privilege of teaching.
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