My car's engine light has been on for more than a month. The wife took that car today because hers is in the driveway because it stalls out at stop lights. I've worn the same brown and black pair of shoes since I became a teacher five-years-ago. I owe a friend a few hundred bucks. We owe Twig's babysitter a few hundred more. We turned (they shut) off our cable about a month ago. The Wife hasn't had health coverage since Twig was born. Last night I had popcorn for dinner.

I am a teacher. I get up everyday and try to put my best foot forward to lay the foundation for student learning. And since this year I was charged with teaching kindergarten, a foundation is exactly what we're trying to create-- something everlasting to build upon.

I typically arrive to school two hours before the students, though officially I'm not permitted to arrive until an hour before they enter for breakfast. When students arrive, I make sure they eat all their breakfast. I tie their shoes. If their hair is out of place, I try to help lay it flat, pin it back, or braid it in. Dirty faces are cleaned and all buttons are, well, buttoned. Sometimes if a student is cold and doesn't have a coat, I'll let him or her wear mine. This makes them feel very special. I hug tears away and chear for the slightest of gains. I try not to yell when Johnny pushes Sally, but rather talk them through it. I listen to the pencil sharpener all day, non-stop. I run for toilet paper when we're out in our little bathroom. I teach the /th/ sound and a little song and dance to help them remember. There is also a subtraction song I wrote years ago at 2AM when it came to me in a dream. The kids love it-- and pictures I show them of my daughter-- they want to know about my life and it helps me miss her a little less. There isn't much time for art, music, and physical education so I plug it into all the subjects: reading, math, remediation, science, social studies. Hell, I turn going to the restroom, getting a drink, and waiting in line for lunch a lesson one of the content areas.

When did remediation become a content area?

I take a lot of work home with me. Not as much physical work as I once did; I've found a system that works (and a part-time job that allows me to complete a lot of my teacher work), but rather mental work. I'm constantly thinking of ways to improve, to reach students, to help control behavior, to ensure they're reading. They must read! They must read! They must read!

When I was in teacher school I was not delusional about my future profession. I knew it was going to be a challenge and that I wasn't going to become a rich man doing it. Teaching was something I had to do-- it was in me, a part of me, running through my veins.

I love what I do and care deeply for the students for whom I've been charged to educate. I believe in the mission, public education, and that teachers should work hard. More so, I don't believe what I've listed above makes me any sort of special teacher, it just makes me a teacher-- I'm not so unique in my dedication, most in the profession are! I believe teachers should work hard and those that don't should really find something else to do... like, NOW!

But I've started to become cynical. I feel my bad teacher days (we all have them) are becoming less and less infrequent. I'd rather not speak to parents or get too personal with them. I shake my head and throw my hands into the air a lot more. I leave angry. I get angry. The students have started to see it.

My students arrive in new fancy cars-- two in different BMW models. They sport BabyPhat, Applebottoms, Polo, and the newest Timberlakes and Jordans. Parents write me letters that I owe them money because I let their child break his or her crayons. If a students coat or baseball cap is lost at school, I should pay to have it replaced. Many of my students arrive at 6am and leave at 6pm for the free childcare program, even though their parents do not work. Most of the students I serve (and their parents) receive free health care coverage. They talk about what they watched last night on television. I have to teach them how to respect the free breakfast and lunch they receive daily, rather than play with it and throw it on the floor.

You hear a lot about teachers in the news these days. We've been blamed by both conservatives and liberals for the failing education system. We have summers off. We don't work hard enough. We make too much money. Our unions ask for too much. We are not accountable. We simply do not care. We don't communicate. We don't reach. We don't engage. We don't need computers or technology or nice schools. We need more professional development.

Bite me!

My cynical outlook isn't about my own personal budget issues, though they don't help. Throwing more money at me would ease the additional stress I carry in the classroom. Yes, my car would run, my wife would be covered and I could provide all the resources that my students deserve and need. But still, it wouldn't fix the system. There is a misconnect somewhere.

I have no answers or solutions. I could reflect and proably shoot back at parents for their lack of involvement, the government for their lack of funding, administrators for their lack of leadership, and the community for their lack of support. But that all seems usless and rather futile.

Dialog. Honesty. Self-reflection. Compassion. Understanding. Perhaps these are the things that should be brought to the table by all stakeholders.

PS. Thanks to*Winks who didn't put a password on their router, becuase we don't have Internet these days either. You made this post possible. Wink, wink!

Why do you think...

Despite all the kidney stone drama the past few days (ok weeks), The Wife and I were about to sneak away for a night to Colonial Williamsburg. Twig stayed with the in-laws while The Wife and I partied our hearts out (In bed by 10:00-- and that's with a 2 hour afternoon nap). It was our first night away together since Twig arrived. We didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it, either.

Cruising around town in our little Ford Focus, we stumbled upon something that bothered us both—a vanity plate. I read somewhere that Virginia has the highest number of vanity plates in the nation. I’m not sure that’s true, but we do seem to have a lot of them. Such plates typically don’t bother me, but this one read MKZYMOM.

Mackenzie’s Mom.

Really? Is that how you identify yourself? It made me itch uncomfortably. Not so much for the mother, but because I felt for Mackenzie herself.

First, to have a mother that is so wrapped up in motherhood that she identifies herself simply as "mom." Second, because she’s not just any mom… she’s MACKENZIE’S MOM!!!

Perhaps I'm being judgemental. I mean, I didn't even see Mackenzie's mom. I don't know the lady at all. It just seemed to screamed pageants and toddlers in tiaras—mothers screaming not for their daughters but because they secretly wished that could live through their daughters.

"Look at me. I’m beautiful, talented, and special. I’m Mackenzie. And that is my mom! Oh wait. NO!?! I'm Mackenzie's mom!"

It did give me a chance to reflect on the pressures society puts on mom and how under appreciated the job of mother has become. I see that pressure build as stress in The Wife’s eyes. And you see, she's pretty lucky...

I’m a hands-on type of dad. I change to poopie ones and bath the bare bottom. I’ll heat up the bottles and get up in the middle of the night when teeth or bad dreams intrude the soundlessness. I take our girl for walks, or to the Home Depot to give mom a few hours rest. I pick-up and help fold the laundrey (though I could do a bit more of that)

And people are impressed with this… I’m "a good dad."

Moms do not get the same accolades for doing far more. And though most moms and dads don’t become parents for the praise, moms most definitely get overlooked at trophy time. A hands-on dad trumps an outstanding mother any day of the week

Moms are the ones looked at with the evil eye when the kid throws a fit in the middle of the grocery store. Dads, not so much. If the little girl’s hair is a mess, mom should “do something about that.” Dad, well, “at least he tried. Isn't it adorable?”

It was cute and funny when I spaced the diaper bag the first time I took Twig to the doctor. If mom would have dropped the ball, CPS would have been notified.

Moms. They've got it rough-- unless you're Mackenzie's mom. Things must be perfect for her.

Why do you think?

Scars...

I’m not sure how I got headed back to this here blog, but here I am, nonetheless. Gesh, it’s funny reading about some of the insights (or lack thereof) I’ve had in years past. Browsing the posts, I’ve stopped and question if I in fact wrote what I was reading—often because of stupidity, but also too because it was well written—even funny.

Awkward at times, this blog-revisit has provided a pretty cool way to capture some of the growth I’ve experienced that past few years. Dare I say growth?
And since today marks a pretty significant milestone in my life, I thought I might provide myself a little update in the off change I again become nostalgic in a few years. Hell, who knows. Maybe I’ll pick-up blogging again.

So, the milestone: Today is my tenth anniversary with The Wife. Pretty cool, huh. Why I’m a wasting time blogging about it? Well, it’s because I’m at work—my part-time gig proctoring babied athletic scholars at my former University. Did you brainy-folk know that athletes not only get a one-up on scholarships, but they’re also required to attend study halls where there are free tutors, computers, and resources to ensure they keep a 2.0 GPA. Yup, and they all bitch about it, too. I’m here, paid ten bucks an hour to ensure they stay focused and don’t try to cheat their time. Shuyeah, pretty sweet deal… especially for me because it typically provides me with the chance to get teacher work done on the University’s dime, when I’d normally do that work for free.

So, back to the milestone: Ten Years! It’s pretty amazing. Gosh, we were babies when we got married. And though much hasn’t changed, so much has!

1) My wife is an amazing woman, but I no longer put her on a pedestal. She isn’t perfect. She has faults. And though I’m certain she could have done better in way of a mate, I’m not so bad. In fact, I’m a pretty good husband. I dye her hair. I try to remember to put the seat down. I’m learning to fix things around the house.

2) Yes, a house. The Wife and I bought a house about two years ago. It’s nothing fancy. It’s a 1,300 square foot, 3 bedroom, 1 bath ranch. But it is ours and it is our home. Ownership is a wonderful, but strange thing. It’s nice being able to paint at will. It’s not nice having to pay for a broken heater or leaky roof. With our house came my 1 car man-cave. I’ve got hammers, and power drills, air guns and miters saws these days. In nearly two years, I’ve learned to lay tile, drywall, do basic electric and plumbing, and build things—like shelves for the library/guestroom and for my daughter.

3) Yup, I said daughter. Twig turned 1-year old at the end of January. Though I can’t believe it’s been a year already, it’s difficult to imagine our life without her. More so, she’s so big now that I can’t even remember what it was like to hold her when she was just an infant. I miss those days, but each day is filled with newness and happiness. She’s walking, learning to talk, problem-solving, causing problems. Last night she woke up screaming. Her back teeth are breaking though and she wasn’t taking it well. The cries were scary. They hurt me. I almost cried myself. For me, fatherhood has evoked clarity and perspective. I’m still me, but only a better version.

4) I’m fat again. It bothers me, yes. But not like before. My self-image use to be so tied into, well image. And though I’m sure that I will never be fully secure in the image of me, I’m alright with me. I’m a pretty good person. And if anyone is judging this book by its cover—even if that anyone is me—it’s not really worth my effort.

5) With that said, I miss the former fitter me. I miss the burn; the sweat; the skinny jeans. I don’t miss the constant analysis of calories; the obsession of what is going in must come out. My working out was not a one of health. Thought it brought outer confidence, I was still a mess inside—burring it all with miles, reps, lifts and laps. And when I had shed 60-pounds and could almost be happy, I was my most unhappy. I shed it, and at the core I was just a fucked up little boy trying to pretend that I was a man.

6) Perhaps it is only the happy pills I take daily or the therapy I attend (at one time weekly), but I’ve started to uncover a happiness that I never thought I deserved. I’ve spent a lot of time looking back, seeking an answer as to why I’m such a depressed and self-loathing person. I’ve looked and looked for the reason why I feel so fucked-up in my head. I wanted so badly a title or diagnosis or affirmation that there is something in fact wrong with me so I didn’t feel like there was in fact something wrong with me.

I guess I’ve learned in these last few years that there isn’t an answer for any of it. Seeking clarity from the past only fogs the present. I don’t need affirmation that I have the right to be screwed up a bit from my past. And that celerity actually makes me feel less screwed up. The bouts of depression are probably going to be a part of my make-up, as I’ve learned they’re part of my genetics. Taking a look inward, being honest, and hell writing about it here has helped recognize the onset of the lows and gives me a bit more stability when riding out the wave.
And since I’m pretty sure I’m the only person going to read this, keep that mindset if you hit any bumps in the road in the future. Bruises from bumps in the road are a part of life, no use self-inflicting scares because of those bruises.

Test of time...

I woke up about an hour ago hacking up a lung. I've had this "cold" for little over a week, and ever time I feel I've passed through the threshold, I'm knocked back on my ass.


I realize this is, perhaps, the theme of my life I realize.


In an attempt to be productive, I signed on to my trusty computer and did my typical Facebook peak before activating the brain to do anything, well... productive.


Behold, my college roommate was online. And we did our conventional catch-up. "How's the baby thing coming. How's the LA life?" And it it all enevitably lead to quotes referening inside jokes, the gaggles of gals-past, and frat-boy bullshit. But something real was brewing and our "talk" got pretty real, pretty fast. He inspired me to jot some thoughts down here.


A year ago this month, I sat in my doctor's office for a physical I had scheduled for the kid's sake. It's something I read that expecting fathers could and should do. And though we lost that kid, I didn't think a physical and check-up was such a horrible thing, so I kep the appointment.


I remember the inner debate I had before checking the yes box to the question, "Do you ever get depressed." And the explination I'd give when he enevitably asked about the next yes I was to check, "Do you ever have thoughts of suicide."


"Sure. Everyone does. I'm fine." I mean damn, the doctor would see me as a liar if not... "It's a natural thought to have."


A year later, I'm a changed man.


If you've followed me here, I've shared much about my past. It was probably clear to see that this past defined me. It was something I held onto. It was something that haunted me. It was something that I needed to sort though, to find the answers to, to pin-point a why.


I shared a bit of this with my ol'roommate-- the guy I hated our freshman year simply because he put his shoes in front of my closet.



He responded with a verse from The Bible.


¹¹ For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. --Jeremiah 29:11



I had read it before, I had realized after Googling. But it wasn't a verse that had stood the test of time with me. Probably because at the time of reading it, I didn't quite buy into it.



A plan? Prosper? Not to harm me?



HA!



Double HA!

HA! HA!



But now it resonates.

IMG00061.jpg

I've been MIA. One day I'll give a real update- not a self indulging portrait of my new flatter tummy- all in the name of testing out my new Blackberry, of course.

I sat in the terminal watching my plane get a deicing shower, the younger, fatter boy sitting next to me. I check out all the guys now that I'm feeling fitter and trimmer. Our arms share the rest, as the the holidays have filled the port with folks running back from here and there, presents in hand, bluetooth attached to the ear. We're so connected in our disconnect. I pray there is no layover. The boy chats on his phone and I don't really hear him until he starts to whisper. I feel my ears perk and my head move slightly towards his direction. The book in my lap become an incoherent mess of nouns and verbs. Blah! Blah! Blah! What's he saying?

"I'm sad, mom. I'll miss you, mom. I don't want to go back, mom."

These are foreign sentiments to me. My saddness reflects in that of my mom's. Missing isn't much in the cards for the pain she's caused. And I was more than ready to be back. So I clicked my heals, looked at my wife and whispered in her ear.

"There's no place like home."

The visit back to where I played t-ball and spent my summer swimming miles in the community pool was not horrible. I enjoyed it, in fact, thinking that it could be home again. The city, it's offerings... it could be mine. The pro-hockey, the season tickets to the college games, the drinking with dad. I could fit here, find my way, make a life.

But my cats are chasing tail in our little apartment and there are friends there, near the ocean, that are like family. I feel some drifting away and I recognized no one is to blame. Placing blame is not important. What is is that I miss them, even though I'm home, here, today. And since this writing took this turn, I allow myself to hope. Hope we'll find a way back to that place, that place when I was younger and fatter.

Tears...

And today there were tears.

It felt good to finally let it go, let it out, let them fall. My baby being gone knocked me into a bit of depression that I really didn't think related directly to the loss. But these tears were for the little one.

They were not all tears of sadness.

The Lord needed my child in heaven, for whatever reason, now. I'm happy this one was a chosen one, one that can watch over and do good work now.

Still, the what could have been on Earth saddens me.

I know this baby will watch over its younger brother or sister, when he or she makes it here. I know that one day we'll all be united and perhaps laugh and play together.

I loved my unborn child before I even knew it was growing inside my wife. And I still love that child, though our eyes never met.

Though I've tried to keep a bit of anonimety in this here blog, I've found that some folks I know personally read it and know that it is in fact Me.  Though I try to be as honest and open, that fact clogs up the honesty in these here fingures at times.  You know, because I know folks who know me that read this, I can post dirty pictures of myself from the waist down and have readers guess my age by the number of rings around my penis (Why didn't God think of that?).  Nor can I announce that I have a total man crush on Michael Phelps (Alright, I totally do, but who wouldn't?). 

 

I'm having one of those honesty clogging mements right now.

 

 

Things will be alright.

Yesterday a letter from my brother appeared in my mailbox.  I was expecting it.  I had recently written him in reference to The Wife being knocked up.  I knew he hadn't received word that our little one was without a heartbeat and thus hadn't made it.

 

I normally look forward to receiving mail from my kid brother.  Despite everything, I love the guy and look forward to our longhand communication; however, I wasn't looking forward to this letter.  I sat it on the table and prepared myself for the excitement that would be read through his chicken scratch and horrible spelling and grammar ability-- worse than mine, even.

 

Eventually, I worked up the courage to open it.  And it read as I had expected.  He was thrilled.  He was excited for me.  He assured me I'd be a great father.  He wished he could be around to share it with me and The Wife.

 

What I hadn't prepared myself for was the anger that would follow.

 

My little brother is a father himself.  He and his girlfriend became pregnant with my nephew when she was 15 and he was 19.  They had made plans to abort this child, but never got around to it.  So, when my little nephew entered the world on September 11, 2001 they were not at all prepared.  All of this could be forgiven, I suppose, but my brother failed to ever step up to the parental plate.

 

In the letter he wrote about how having a child brings such joy, how it completes you, and how it causes a life revaluation.

 

Yet, my brother is currently serving a 48-yearr prison sentence for murder.  Clearly, I can't say he's much of a father.  I can't say that he ever took his fatherly responsibilities too seriously, especially the night he became high, and put a bullet in another man's head over some drug deal gone bad.  Of course that all brought to the surface that he use to keep drugs and guns under my nephew's bed, among other disgusting displays of parental irresponsibility.

 

Of course, he voiced all that in his letter... listing his screw ups, regrets, and remorse.

 

Still, it did not make it easy to read.  Him and his advice.  Him and his joy.  Him and his talk about the child he can't raise.  Sometimes life is just unfair.  It's unfair that I won't be a father this go around.  It's unfair that my nephew was dealt a crappy father.

 

I wonder who I'll be unfair to when I write him back assuring him that he does what he can to be a good father, and that I'm alright with God's plan... that things will be alright.

 

 

 

 

Untelling process...

Some folks say you should wait to share your news until after the first trimester.  You know, just in case something goes wrong.  After all, I've read that nearly 25% of pregnancies end in natural demise.  The Wife and I couldn't hold back with our baby news and once we started to tell, we couldn't stop. 

 

I've learned, the untelling process is an interesting one.

 

Some folks seem to know exactly what I need to hear.  Those folks are few.  Others seem to take the news harder than The Wife and I had taken it.  I end up assuring those people that everything will be fine, that it happened for a reason and that me and The Wife are fine.  Other find comfort in the corners of the room, diverting direct eye contact.  For some I've found, it opens wounds of their own personal loss.  Many hugs follow the news...  sometimes tears. Is it odd that I have yet to cry?  Or do I rest assure, like some friends have stated, it will come in time.

 

It's rainy this afternoon, the tear drops tap outside of my classroom rather than stream down my cheek.  I feel a mute of depression, but it's not something unlike the cycle of depression that often seeps in from time to time.  But unlike those times, I don't want to jump off a cliff or put a bullet though my brain.  Something in me is still smiling, a joy much like that which invaded when The Wife told me we were going to be parents. 

 

Those helplessly happy thoughts of what is to come are still swimming. 

 

I don't regret the joy I spread to others, too early for some.  It was a joy that should be shared, a joy that I was happy to share... that I'm still happy I shared.  The pain that followed this time is just the journey to a greater good, a goodness I'm sure I can't completely comprehend.

 

How could I? 

 

You see, I don't feel defeated.  I almost feel inspired.  And though so much of the future is unknown right now.  Will we ever have children?  It's a journey I'm excited to take, with my wife, the woman I love more and more each day.