Garbage Disposal

She came to us about a month ago already named. Georgia, the 85 pound American Bulldog, has a heart of gold and an intense stare. She sits next to you on the couch with her hind legs extended in front of her like a human. Her gaze penetrates the soul; I find myself tempted to take her to a coffee house and sit across from her explaining in detail all of my hopes and fears while we sip cappuccinos. Her hefty frame and large paws lead her through life on a clumsy path but if she ever hurt you it would be a complete accident. She lets baby Jace crawl on her face and lay his head on her short, brown-spotted, white fur. She is well trained and can come, sit, stay, and lay down, she even knocks on the door when she needs to go outside.

Eric found Georgia on Craigslist (he has a mild addiction I think). "She's a great dog," the lady said. We congregated in the parking lot of a gas station right next to a small, shut down fruit stand. As Georgia paced back and forth on a long pink leash, 1-year-old Jace watched intently from my hip. "She loves to ride in the front seat," the lady continued. I set Jace down on the pavement-Georgia walked up to him and started licking. A thrilled giggle escaped his lips and Eric and I exchanged a glance than meant "YES!"
"For some reason she is afraid of people who wear hats, but as you can see she is great with kids." The lady continued recounting "selling points" for Georgia unaware we had already made our decision. It turned out Georgia had a thing for chicken...the live kind...and the lady's boyfriend couldn't take it anymore. We handed the lady $60 and climbed in to the car. Georgia promptly found a spot on my lap (a spot that caused both of my feet to fall asleep by the end of the ride home). The lady's parting words were "she does like to chew things...just so you know..."

The first few days Georgia got herself acclimated, Eric and I joked about all of the ways the lady was wrong. Eric wore a hat all the time and she didn't even seem to notice. We left her in the house and she hadn't chewed a thing. Did this lady (I can't remember her name) even know this dog? Then my fear began that since we got her from Cragslist was Georgia even her dog to give away?

It all started about a week later...with the Easter Bunny. I came home from work to find Connor's stuffed Easter Bunny mutilated in the living room. Stuffing was everywhere like a sporadic snowfall mixed with scraps of baby blue fur. A small blue tail was all that remained recognizable. We have approximately 872 stuffed animals so i admit I wasn't too upset and honestly Connor, being 5-years-old and more into playing baseball and searching out bugs, wouldn't notice; furthermore, Easter was about a month ago and the toys newness had worn off. Mickey Mouse got it next. As a little girl at heart i was horrified to come home to a decapitated, tailless Mickey Mouse-smile still intact. Day after day I would continue to find "presents" upon returning home: chewed diapers, a golf ball, my library bag, Connor's bike helmet, markers, crayons, and countless stuffed animals (I think we are down to 750 now). The latest ;however, leaves me shocked...if not a little impressed. In one sitting Georgia devoured eight, whole, restaurant-sized, everything bagles and a bottle of tadpole pellets, then washed it down with a full bottle of baby Motrin.

Georgia came to us already named-and we love her! We love her everyday as we put her in the fenced-in backyard before we leave.

The Rush

I found this in a writers notebook from the last school year during my student teaching. I had to laugh at myself because I think it very well sums up this past year as a first-year teacher as well. Hmmm...I'm wondering if this is the pattern of a teacher's life...

Not enough time in the day...or the night
Did the alarm go off?
But there's not light outside
really???

Hoist out of bed...
stumble in the shower
Ahhh....water washes away the sleep
and some of the stress
I hold onto these moments

Time will always move
I think I may fall trying to keep up
But wait, there was a moment...
I grabbed hold for a moment an felt in control

Oops...I lost my grip

But now, happily, I slip into the tumult
My steps are getting more firm on the slippery, uneven ground
I wear the bumps and bruises of my falls as battle wounds

Proud and happy I giggle to myself
I show a toothy smile to the world...
I wait for the rush of the next descent

Looking Back

4:30 in the morning...the alarm goes off. The bedroom is pitch black and I can see from the opening in the curtains only a soft glow of twilight. I can smell the coffee but even that doesn't motivate me to get out of bed. I've been teaching for a few weeks and fight back the urge every Monday to roll over or pull the covers over my head.

But I don't.

I get up and stretch. I haven't slept much the night before because I've been racking my brain about what I'm teaching the next day and reflecting about how the school day went before. The sleep I did get was filled with horrible dreams of student uprisings and angry parents (none of which had happened...yet). I pour the coffee, take a few sips, and step into the shower. By the time I am in the car I have scoured my lesson plans, graded homework and worked on the next weekly newsletter to parents. The hum of the engine is comforting as I drive the thirty minutes to work. One can do a lot of thinking without a radio. I rehash my plans on the way to school, rehash my job choice, and even rehash my outfit. I sit in the parking lot taking in the last sip of coffee-drinking it slowly to buy myself time. I can still go home.

But I don't

My first few students walk through the door at about 7:15. With them come lively conversation about the weekends happenings. I take a deep breath and smile; after a few hugs I am feeling better, somewhat rejuvenated. I know why I am here, and despite the uneasiness of my own self, I am sure of these wonderful kids I get to call my friends.

Morning Meeting comes and the kids begin to teach through news and journals. One boy sits in the circle with his hand held high--I can tell by his smile that he is bursting to share. I call on him and he explains "I have a culture journal...this weekend I shot my first deer!" Half of the class gasps in horror and the other half joins in his excitement. He's so full of pride now it is bursting out his eyeballs. He goes on to teach us about the ritual of pouring the blood of the first killed dear on the hunter. As he recounts the events of the weekend I can see a few kids getting squeamish. "What an amazing thing for you" I interject smiling. "I think we may need to stop there for some of our more sensitive friends but I would like to open it up for questions and comments...umm...please don't get too much into the icky stuff for us."

"Oh, don't worry Ms. V. just be glad I didn't share about what happens when you kill your first Buck. Then I would have to explain how they cut of the (he points...you can guess) and put it around your neck." To his credit he did speak in somewhat hushed tones; however, a good half the class heard him.

"I appreciate you not going into that," I say through my smirk.

He nods fervently "I know that some people don't want to hear about that stuff."

In this simple moment I am reminded of how much I revel in my existence as their teacher. Despite all of the crazy planning, the standards, the classroom management, and countless other hoops to jump through it is still a process of unpredictability and living in the moment. It is a process that commands a group of people to come together, share lives, embrace similarities and differences, learn, and love. One kid said it best "it's so weird Ms. V. sometimes you seem like everyone's mom...and another thing, it's like we're one big family in here!"

I have become much more sure of myself through the journey of my first year as a teacher. I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, but I have stopped scouring and rehashing my plans. I have climbed out of the survival mode and have begun to find a much more natural groove. I began the year questioning myself, did I really want to be a teacher?" Now I know.

I do!

Monitor and Adjust

The last 12 months have been a whirlwind...I have completed a Masters program, had a bouncing baby boy, and began a new job as a second grade teacher. Teaching is the most amazing profession and I feel lucky everyday that I get to hang out and learn with some truly amazing kids...they always teach me to stay on my toes...

I decided that it was time to introduce my students to a new song. In my internship I did a fun thing with my coaching teacher and his class (thanks Tim) that I thought I would try with mine. Tim is always great at finding and sharing great music; he began playing With my Own Two Hands for literature appreciation and the kids really took to it. It is such a great social activism piece and the version I found on YouTube with Ben Harper and Jack Johnson makes tears come to my eyes.

I figured since the recent outreach to Haiti that's gracing the news and our class had been discussing segregation and the power people have, it seemed like a good time to start playing it. So, the first day we read it as a class and the kids seemed interested--not as much as I hoped. I tried to excite them my telling them we would hear the song the next day.

The next day came and I played it for them in the morning. I was pretty pumped about it. I knew it was going to inspire them and couldn't wait until the brilliant discussion we were about to have. I saw a few kids swaying to it as they cleaned up and readied themselves to meet on the carpet. After the song finished I was beaming. I asked simply..."so, what did you think?" A wonderfully energetic and often insightful friend raised his hand. I eagerly called on him. "I thought it was long," he said. I think I staggered back a little and mumbled, "Um...well... it is longer than many othere songs we often listen to," I tried to recover and quickly asked someone else to volenteer their feelings. One of the most talented writers in the class said, "I agree, I thought it was very long."
"Okay," I turned in hope to another raised hand and with a nervouse grin nodded in the direction of a girl in the front row. with an honest smile on her face she announced, "I thought it was kinda weird the way they sounded when they sang it." It was official...the kids didn't share my enthusiasm.

We did have a thought provoking discussion about the meaning of the song. The kids had some great insight about the lyrics and have since made some great connections back to what i meant. However, in the end they voted against playing the song during our clean up time. I have to admit I was a little disappointed they didn't share my love for the song. I truly appreciate how they teach me everyday that I need to remain flexible. Everyday in the room is different and sometimes what you think is going to be powerful may fall flat and what you think is going to be boring may becomes exceptional.

Caution: Railroad Crossing

I wrote this family story as an assignment in one of my graduate courses. It was extremely significant as I had just found out I was pregnant and had not yet told my father. There is something truly magical about how having a baby brings family so much closer. I wrote this with my dad in mind...

I guess you could say I was seven and a half months old…or approximately negative one month and a half depending on how you look at it. Mom carefully positioned herself on the sofa around he bulging belly, she was poised and ready to enjoy the gridiron battle between the Dallas Cowboys and Washington Redskins—it was December 5, 1982.

Ever since I can remember, Dad has told me the same things: “Teresa, you’re always in a rush to grow up” and “Teresa, you’re burning the candle at both ends.” I suppose there wouldn’t be any difference the day that I was born.

The night before this cozy interlude, my parents attended a wedding—who got married and where the festivities were are quite trivial—the ride home on the other hand led Mom and Dad on a premature journey. The excited expecting couple laughed as they rode over train tracks. “Oh no, John…train tracks…you know what this means...Baby will be born tomorrow” Mom joked. An unfinished baby room, no name picked out, and their quick laughter proved they didn’t put much stock in that superstition. They laughed all the way home…I was laughing too.

The game had just begun, mom snuggled next to dad—then, her body began to tense; she dismissed the pain, must be Braxton Hicks she thought, and continued to follow the men on the football field. A few minutes passed but the pain had not and she began to worry, “John?” mom got his attention “grab your watch…These pains seem too close together” Dad did as requested and within fifteen minutes they were packed and on the road to the hospital. The doctor examined Mom and decided she was not to deliver that night. He made his last rounds through the hospital, said his goodnights and goodbyes and left for home.

He couldn’t have been home for long when he received the call from the hospital; “uh…doc? We need you back at the hospital, Kathy is going into labor.” So, just as Dad says I was rushing—I rushed into this world at 11:25 p.m. already burning the candle at two ends; my lungs weren’t fully developed leading me straight to an incubator with jaundice and trouble breathing. The doctor and nurse worked diligently to make sure I would be okay but the doctor explained “it’s a fifty-fifty chance; if she makes it through the night, then we’re in the clear.”

Dad walked up to the incubator peering at me through the blurred vision of the tears perched on the brink of his eyelids. Seeing his little girl in an incubator was not easy, he carefully reached his hand inside and my tiny weak fingers reached up and wrapped around his pinkie. He stood next to me awkwardly contorted with his hand in the incubator as I gripped his finger. There he stood, all night long, and when morning came and the doctor returned Dad was still there looking down on me, smiling...I was still breathing, and still holding on to his hand.

If you ask my father I’m still in a rush to grow up and always burning the candle at both ends; but whether it be through sickness and pain, tears and heartache, or love and celebration I know I can always curl my little fingers around his pinkie and he’ll stay with me as long as I need.

Gathering the Courage

So, I have finally decided to begin blogging. After countless times of thinking to myself that it would be fun, I have signed up for the account, chosen a template, and here I am typing my first entry.

I'm not so sure it will be exciting to anyone other than myself...but regardless I'm pumped! I have been published before in a short-lived free magazine, five articles to be exact. Three of them were interviews: a radio personality, a jazz musician, and a state official. One story was about USC's (South Carolina) football team and their new black jerseys. However, my all-time favorite...a 500 word article about Christmas lights (it allowed for the most creativity...come on...500 words on Christmas lights?).

Now I will be published on my own terms, choosing my own topics. Some entries I'm sure will pale in comparison to my great work on holiday decoration, but I can't help but feel a little bit giddy and nervous, because even if I only have one or two readers who read my blog from time to time it's a new way of putting myself out there. How exciting!