Making Sense

I'm sitting in a Panera with a blank computer screen up. Ten... twenty... thirty minutes have gone by since I opened my torts casebook. The playlist on my iPod looped four times before I noticed.

I can't make sense of the last month, and that lack of sense pervades into most of the things I try to do. I end up staring. Then shaking my head and getting back to work only to stare again. Some days that's all there is- blank-eyed stares. Other days it's not so bad.

That's the funny thing about grief. It's like having a leech on your back sucking out your energy, mostly without you knowing. Maybe you're fine, maybe you're just used to being drained. Then sometimes you laugh and you believe that you're finally alright again, only to be right back to where you started five minutes later. Like I said, I can't make sense of it.

Because I see things in black and white, I struggle with this. I just want to crawl into bed. I don't want to be in a gray area, in a kind of limbo where life is back to normal but it's not back to normal at all. I want every day to be the same, for better or worse, so I can figure out where I am. But it doesn't work like that.

You take one day at a time. One hour at a time, even. Like my dad says- do one thing at a time, and do it right. It's all you can do.

The Important Thing

What my sister and I read at Jon's services...

In times of seemingly insurmountable grief, we seek, more than anything, understanding. We look endlessly for answers. We ache to be “okay,” but we also fight it, never wanting to be “okay” with a loss so great that it shakes us to our very core.

When Jon was born, Sara and I jumped on our bed chanting, “We’re getting a brother! We’re getting a brother!” From that day on, our lives and the lives of those around us have never been the same. We all got a brother that day and we sit here now with hearts that are heavy and soaked with sorrow.

The love we have for Jon fills this room, along with the memories he has forever imprinted in our minds. We cannot find the words to express how overwhelming this feeling of love is, so we look to the words of another to explain.

From the children’s book by Margaret Wise Brown, The Important Book

The important thing about the rain is that it is wet. It falls out of the sky, and it sounds like rain, and makes things shiny, and it does not taste like anything, and is the color of air. But the important thing about the rain is that it is wet.

The important thing about snow is that it is white. It is cold, and light, and falls softly out of the sky. It is bright, and the shape of tiny stars and crystals. It is always cold. And it melts. But the important thing about snow is that it is white.

The important thing about the sky is that it is always there. It is true that it is blue, and high, and full of clouds, and made of air. But the important thing about the sky is that it is always there.

The important thing about you is that you are you. It is true that you were a baby, and you grew, and now you are a child, and you will grow into a man. But the important thing about you is that you are you.

Jon, Jean, Jan, Jake, JB, Jon-Jon, and Goobs-

It is true that you were once a baby, and you grew into a man. Your eyes were blue and you had the most beautiful smile we’ve ever seen.

You were a phenomenal athlete. You were in the goal when history was made, and were a national champion. But none of that came easily. Whether it was five-hour road trips for one-on-one lessons with the Goalie Man or 21 credit hours completed in one summer, you worked hard for everything you accomplished. You approached these accomplishments with a humility that very few people possess.

You were selfless and loyal and gave to others with compassion and without hesitation. You treated every friend like your best friend and the way you treated family is the way everyone should treat family.

You brought Sara and I pizza at 3’o’clock in the morning, installed “surround sound” in the back room for Pa, and somehow managed to get Mom wherever she was going safely even when you were “Textin’ and drivin’, makin’ Ma mad!”

You were a neighbor, a friend, a teammate, a cousin, a brother, a son, and now, you are an angel. But the most important thing about you is that you are you, and you will always be you to us.

We love you, and you will forever hold a special place in our hearts. You are watching over us all now, and there is no one we would rather have looking after and protecting us.

Sharing the Banana

I never thought about going to my brother's calling hours and funeral before last week. I woke up this morning thinking about how long the next two days would be. How unbearable they would be. Picking up an 8x10 for his casket this morning only reinforced that.

But my cousin texted me and reminded me that "You will never be surrounded by this many people who love you and your family. You are not alone these next two days. There is no doubt they will suck but there will be just as much love in that room as there has been pain." She's right. One of the first long days we spent in the hospital waiting room, we found ourselves having trouble eating (not a problem that has ever occurred in our family). I tried to eat a banana for breakfast. I couldn't finish it. I gave it to my sister to finish. She couldn't finish it either. Finally, that same cousin who sent me the previous text took the last two bites.

It may take three of us to finish a banana, and it may take a village to get through the next day, but we will carry each other through it as we've been doing since this awful thing started.

Maybe a Protein Shake Would Help?

One of my favorite Jon stories happened one morning when I was sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast. He came downstairs, shirtless, ready to continue his summer work out routine that he had started a week earlier.

"You always want to start out the day with a high-protein breakfast," he said, talking more to himself than to me. "And what's more high-protein than a protein shake?"

"Nice," I replied, and went back to eating and reading the newspaper.

"Let me show you what a REAL protein shake looks like." He started pulling random boxes and jars out of the pantry and refrigerator.

"First, protein powder. You know, for the protein. Milk. For the calcium. Peanut butter. For more protein. Ice cream to cool it down with some more calcium. Some eggs. Even more protein. And chocolate syrup." He paused. "Because it's delicious." 

The blender was filled to the top. "And finally, to mix it. Highest setting. Let the protein begin."

When he started the blender, he looked right at me with his cheesy smile and started shaking it and chanting "Protein!" while it blended. He looked like he was a roid-raging bodybuilder. Unfortunately for him, the shaking caused the top of the blender to break and chocolate peanut butter protein shake sprayed all over his face and the rest of the kitchen.

He looked at me. "Oh good. There's still some left in the bottom..."

Family

When I was teaching, a common beginning-of-the-year activity was to have the kids draw a picture and write about their families. I remember talking about it with more experienced teachers in planning who emphasized telling the kids to only include their IMMEDIATE family. If you didn't, they would include everyone they know- their parents, their aunts and uncles, the kid next door, the man they saw picking his nose on the bus...

I've known for a long time that I'm a part of the best family in the world. I would apologize to the other families I've spent time with, but every time I leave someone else's house or family function, I can't help but realize how awesome we are. I think about how genuinely caring my parents are, how funny my brother and sister are, how warm and welcoming my aunts and uncles and grandparents are (even if we sometimes act a little bit more inappropriately than we should).

After sitting in a hospital waiting room for six days, I've let go of that need to limit the definition of family to the ones sharing the same roof and last name. I still believe that I'm part of the best family of the world, but that family is not just the people I spend Christmas and Thanksgiving with. It's more than the people invited to weddings and graduation parties and family birthday parties. It encompasses a group of people that feels the triumphs and disappointments of my immediate family, a group that rushes to share in our joint happiness and hurt.

My family is the community that knows where we live and where we work. The people who went to elementary and middle and high school with us, who watched us compete from the stands and read about us in the newspaper. It's the students of my parents and the teachers of my siblings and me. It's the coaches and the teammates and the colleagues, the bank tellers and the grocery store workers and the bartenders. Our small town can seem like too much to bear, but at times like these it is a force of incredible support.

My family is the neighbors that watched us as we grew up. The kids who played Fox and the Hounds every night of the summer, who played in our playhouse and swam in our pool. It's the people who lent us money for the Hokey Pokey truck, the ones who pet Tuffy as they walked by. It's those who sat in our kitchen all hours of the night, who drank beer at "Lou's" and by our firepit. The ones who came by for our "town meetings."

My family is the friends who might as well be family, who have reached out over hundreds and thousands of miles to send their love and support. They are the ones who traded reward points for hotel rooms, who picked through our underwear drawers, who somehow made us laugh. They have sat with us in the waiting in silence, knowing that it may be just what we need.

My family is the teammates that played with Jon and Kristin and me. My college coach always told us that you have your friends, and then you have your teammates. Every e-mail ended with "Stay strong, stay together" and I have never seen that more true than the past few days. Strings of lacrosse players, volleyball players, and runners have sent thoughts, prayers, embarrassing pictures... everything you could think of. They remind me of the importance of friendship and camaraderie, the need for support and perseverance. Teammates do not care whether they competed with you or against you. An East High lacrosse player carried in the West High victory poster into Jon's hospital room. THAT's family.

As horrible as the past week has been, I've been carried by the strength of a thousand honorary sisters, brothers, aunts, and uncles. And I cannot thank you enough.

An Open Letter

As many of you may know, my little brother Jonny was admitted to Strong Memorial Hospital on Wednesday morning with a traumatic brain injury. I came from Boston on Wednesday evening and have been here since then. My mom started a Caring Bridge website to update our friends and family on Jon's progress, which you can access here.

I want to start by thanking everyone who has come to Strong to see Jon and our family. The love and support we have gotten in the past two days is incredible. Thousands of people have visited Jon's website and hundreds have posted their thoughts and prayers. This has been an extremely challenging time for us and it is a comfort to have so many people behind us. It's as if our already large family has expanded exponentially. Yesterday, we took over most of the ICU waiting room and the Ronald McDonald House common area. There is enough food to feed an army and enough love to fill our hurting hearts. I literally have never seen so many chocolate chip cookies in one place in my life (although they're diminishing by the minute).

I've always done better in writing than I have in person, so I'm trying to say to Jon what I do not have the strength to say when I am with him. Although the doctors say that he can hear us, I also believe that he has limited internet access to my blog. Don't ask me how- I just know. This letter is to you.

---

Goobs,

I'll start with my most common adage during a close game- keep your composure. Composure is the calm and control we all have inside of us, something that you have filling you up to the brim. You have the composure, the strength, and the patience to make it through this difficult fight. Any composure you lack is coming from God, who can hear all the people praying for you and is giving you strength in spite of the time you fell asleep during Christmas midnight mass (it was so long ago, after all).

Know that we are all here for you, praying and pulling for you. Just like you have always been here for the rest of us, with a joke or a smile or a chicken wing pizza. We're returning the countless, selfless things that you have done for so many others, things that are appreciated more than you could ever know. I know you can hear the (bad) jokes we are making, see the smiles we make because we know you can hear them. I wish I could bring you a wang sub with extra blue cheese, wrapped up fresh from Aniello's.

More than anything, remember that you are a fighter. You thrive in close, important games and this is your closest and most important one yet (although your last East West game is up there). You will get through this. Because at the end of the day, we're just a bunch of regular people, hanging out with a National Champion. Continue fighting like the champion you are. I love you.

Love,
Sari

What Did You Learn Today?

When I was teaching, I used to make my kids share what they learned at our end of the day meeting. Maybe it was because my parents made me tell them what I learned in school at dinner every night, but mostly because it was a good measure of whether they were paying attention to me or to the cap eraser people game they all played in their desks. Now that I'm in law school, I feel like I should keep the tradition going by telling my roommates the legal subtleties I picked up on that day. For example:

• If I can prove negligence by slipping on a banana peel in a grocery store, I'd probably be able to pay for law school with the damages
• I cannot, in fact, rig a spring-loaded shotgun to protect my abandoned farmhouse down the road
• About 90% of disputed contracts occur at either (a) the company Christmas party after several rounds of egg nog or (b) the local pub over frothing pints of ale (according to my contracts professor)
• The difference between sans serif and serif fonts (I'm really not sure why that's necessary to become a lawyer, but oh well)

There you have it, Mom. One thing from each class. Isn't it just riveting?

The Crime Dog

One of the things that convinced my parents I should go to law school (I admit, it took me longer to convince myself) was when I talked them into getting a dog. I was eleven. Most normal kids (like my brother and sister) succeed at doing so by whining incessantly until someone throws their hands up and says, "Fine! You can get one!" Kristin and Jon did plenty of that, but I took another route. I wrote a persuasive essay, complete with a chart designating certain dog-related responsibilities to different family members. Instead of begging, I handed them the sheets of lined paper, folded my hands, and waited for them to read it. I swear I remember one of them whispering to the other, "She's weird."

Even though we were visiting family friends out of town and were two weeks away from starting school, it worked. We brought home a five-pound Chow mix runt, who we briefly named Delilah. Until we realized "she" had a wiener. So we changed his name to Tuffy.

Tuffy was so small as a puppy that he could dive underneath our coffee tables.

Tuffy gained half a pound a day, turning into a big, furry, bulk of a dog with a penchant for perking his ears up at trespassing cats, never actually catching one. My dad trained him to sit, stay, lay down, and shake. The biggest training accomplishment, though, goes to Kristin, who went through two Supersize McDonald's french fries teaching him to "Speak."

Tuffy was a fixture on our front porch for the last thirteen years, either perched on his dog bed or sprawled underneath our front bushes. He barked at the mailman without fail, but never at the Aniello's delivery guy. He got sprayed by a skunk on three separate occasions, never remembering that his little black and white friends caused him (and us) so much suffering. When he was young and energetic, he would sprint through the rooms of our downstairs floor, running around chairs and under tables. He'd stop and stare up at you, unmoving, his butt in the air and front paws down. One movement on your part and he'd go back to running around. His hallmark? The tufts of fur he shed without fail in the springtime (except that one time my dad gave him a haircut that looked more like a lawnmower accident).

Over the past few years, he's slowed down. A lot. He stopped running around the house, stopped wagging his tail at people walking by, even stopped getting excited at the proclamation of "Cat!" I know change is a part of life, but it didn't make it any easier to come to terms with the fact that Tuffy had to be put down this morning. It's like losing part of my childhood, a favorite photo album of family memories. He saw curfews broken, friendships made. He watched Kristin sneak out of the house. He was there the night Jon had that party. He never saw me do anything wrong because I never broke the rules. He barked at the four'o'clock paper boy every morning and howled at the six'o'clock Dresser Rand horn every night. He always knew when we were eating dinner. Always.

When we were younger, he had hundreds of nicknames. Tuff. Scruff. Gruffkin. Tuffaluffagus. The Gruffster. My personal favorite? One Jon made up- Tuff McGruff the Crime Dog. And now the Crime Dog is going to the big farm in the sky where there are no chinchillas to drive him crazy, where he can chase cats and skunks without worrying about fences or stink, and where his meals will always include a little bit of steak. We'll always miss you.

Love ya buddy... :(

Grade One to One L

Moving from first grade to first year law is quite the jump, but I have to say that the transition has been less rocky than I initially thought. The idea of being cold-called in class is scary, but less scary than being on call to a bunch of six-year-olds most of the day, every day. I can handle my odds with ease after two years of that. It's crazy how differently my first week of law school has gone in comparison to my first week of teaching. That was a wild display of chaos, inexperience, and completely false expectations. Not that I think law school will be a walk in the park... I'm sure the anxiety and insecurity will come in due time. I'm wondering whether it's easier to get the horrific out of the way early, or to know it's lurking somewhere in the future. I guess the jury's still out on that one (hah! Law jokes!).

I went to the gym for the first time today, overwhelmed because BU's gym is huge. I walked around aimlessly looking for day lockers and feeling like a freshman (how I've felt most of the week) when all of a sudden I heard some yelling echoing down one of the hallways next to the pool. I looked through the door and saw a short, young-ish man with one hand over his head.

"First grade! You have five seconds to get in a line behind me! Five... four..."

Six-year-olds with wet hair sopping the backs of their shirts pulled at their clothes uncomfortably. The countdown didn't stop them from whipping their towels in spirals on the ground, scuffing wet shoes on the floor, or looking in awe at their surroundings. One girl seemed more concerned about finding her friend Stella-

"Where is she?!" she proclaimed to the teacher's dismay.

-than getting in line.

Don't get me wrong. I miss my kids. I miss parts of teaching. But you could not pay me a million dollars to take first-graders on a field trip to the pool. I could only smile at the teacher and hold the door as the line straggled past.

*Side note: why doesn't this class have a door holder as a class job?! Rookie mistake.

On the Other Side of the Mason-Dixon

Orientation starts tomorrow, and aside from my North Carolina driver's licence, I'm pretty close to being a Yankee again. In the midst of all the anxiety about all these new chapters in my life (excuse the cliche, I've been in the car too long today), I'm finding myself nostalgic for certain parts of good ol' Dixie. Shall I list what I miss?

• Chick-fil-A. Especially on Sunday, when no one in the country can have it.
• Fried pickles. A Southern delicacy.
• 80+ degrees. The weather up here is equivalent to Carolina December, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that.
• Ya'll. Nothing but the cheesy "you guys" or vague and cold plural "you."
• Four (or more) different country radio stations. Or any radio stations, given that I've been in upstate New York for the past week.
• People of the South. I mean the people I knew, not the strangers. I miss my friends.
• Leisurely driving. Maybe use a turn signal, maybe don't. Slow down in the passing lane so people can read your vanity plate (every other car has one). People drive too fast in Massachusetts to make vanity plates worth it.

I'm sure there's more than that, but it's all my tired brain can handle right now. Back to being a student tomorrow.

Two Weeks Notice

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing to inform you of my intent to resign from my position of summer laziness at the close of business on Monday, September 6, 2011 (which ironically falls on Labor Day, a national holiday on which no business aside from relaxing with friends and choice beverages will take place). In spite of the many positive aspects of my current situation, I have been offered the opportunity to go into unspeakable amounts of debt so that I can do nothing but read and highlight what I read without break for the next three years of my life. I have thoroughly enjoyed the time I have spent skimming shallow beach novels, watching trashy TV On Demand, taking health risks by absorbing UVA/UVB rays, and sleeping without setting an alarm and/or allowing natural light to wake me.

I will continue to faithfully execute the duties of this post for the remainder of my contract, including the previously planned trip to Painted Post, NY where I will close out my partnership with the late summer sun and tanning season and shadow the carefree retirement lifestyle of my parents. I appreciate the lack of structure and blissfully empty days with which you have provided me, and leave with nothing but the utmost respect and gratitude of my time here.

Sincerely,
The Lazy Bum

P.S.- Do I have to go?

Wait, I'm Not a Teacher?

Hold up. Looking at the date when I posted that last blog brought on the heavy realization that I am NOT starting the teacher workdays with the rest of my old colleagues and TFA corps members. As much as I know that I do not belong in the classroom, it's a hard thing to let go of. It's losing a part of my identity. It's changing the verb tense I use when people ask what I do.

I was a teacher.

A few weeks ago, I was browsing the book section in Target for my next summer read. I had tried to convince myself to read dry, boring books to prepare for school (hah) and ended up "just looking" under the Top Beach Reads category. An older women saw me and ended up recommending a book she'd just read, recommended to her by a stranger in a book store. We started chatting and I mentioned that I had a lot of free time having the summer off because...

I paused, contemplated what I would say next and proceeded.

"I teach first grade."

Teach. Not taught. The woman instantly lit up, and I instantly went crazy in my head. Why would I lie about that? I don't WANT to teach anymore. And yet I was still longing to hold on to that part of myself, even to some stranger in Target.

Of course, the woman had been a first grade teacher for 30 years. Of course, she told me that she would say many prayers for me that I had a great class roster this year (we are in South Carolina, by the way). Of course, she had to tell me that she could tell "by the look in my eyes that I love it."

You mean the look of sheer panic at what I just told you? The utter confusion of why I would pretend to still be a teacher to someone I've never met before? The frantic damage control with which I acted after I blurted out that lie?

Oh right. Panic, confusion, damage control. All key characteristics of teachers... I see where you got that from now.

Back To School, Remixed

Teacher becomes the student.

Sorry for the cliche, and sorry for the wait. Blogging has been the least of my concerns this summer (clearly) for some very simple reasons, the biggest reason being that I don't really have anything to blog about. There have been a couple things here and there that have grabbed my attention, but blogging about them would have gotten in the way of my main goal of not taking anything too seriously. Some of those things I'll touch on later. Most of them I won't.

But today, reality struck and my brain needs to get back in the swing of things. As my mother so lovingly reminded me in a text the other day:

"One 24 word blog in over a month, that is REALLY pathetic. I hope you remember how to read and write when you go to law school."

I hope so too. I got my schedule and section for classes and finally realized that I'm moving to Boston and starting school in just two weeks. The weird thing is that I'm having a hard time registering the fact that this year, back to school doesn't mean shamelessly buying Crayola 24-packs for thirteen cents in Target. It doesn't mean having teaching nightmares about leave hundreds of pounds of raw meat in my classroom all summer (which happened last year). The bright-eyed, bushy-tailed student this year is ME, not the little six-year olds scuffing their shoes down the hallway.

It's a weird shift to make. The difference is that instead of freaking out about being ready, I'm surprisingly chilled out. I opened my first Word document in over a month yesterday. The extent of my prep work has been working on my tan, getting over 10 hours of sleep a night, and reading one nonfiction book. Even now, with a lot to do, I have no checklist, no charts, no spreadsheets. I haven't had any law school nightmares, although I did have a teaching one (weird, right?). Maybe it's becoming impossible to faze me after teaching first grade (which seems unlikely, but I'll take it).

Forgotten Gem

I miss those little ones. Even when they forget the words. Even when they change what I think of when I think of Nelly.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FkJSPL_1uLQ

The Real Adventure

Is Skyping my mom. I did it earlier today in a bout of boredom after Jack left for work and was reminded of all the things she does that always keep the person she's Skyping guessing. Like...

...the fact that her webcam works about 14% of the time. I'd like to attribute it to technical difficulties, but I think the real reason is her inability to find the "Add Video" button. This means that instead of truly videochatting, I'm stuck staring at a tiny screen image of myself in the bottom right hand corner of my screen knowing that my mom is watching me, kind of like a stalker.

...her understanding that just because I can't see her means I can't hear her. Whenever she picks up the call, she's always yelling. Usually, I can hear the telltale intro music to Law and Order blasting in the background. The loudness is compounded by her tendency to add a vowel to the end of most words and hold them out for extended periods of time ("Sariiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!").

...the random things that happen during the interaction.

In the middle of a story, it suddenly sounded as if her computer had been picked up by a tornado.

"What are you doing?" I shouted over the noise. It stopped.

"Oh, I was just cleaning out my keyboard. You know, with one of those air sprayers."

Not exactly the right time, Mom.

At least it's always entertaining.

Restless

Sometimes when I have too much free time bad ideas begin to sound like better ides, then they almost start to sound like good ideas. I'm wondering how good the following ideas are...

• Getting a puppy
• Piercing my nose
• Tricking myself into training for a triathlon
• Paying to go to the zoo by myself
• Volunteering to work with children
• Driving around the Deep South trying to find where my friends from Charlotte live

Thoughts?

Filling Time

The number of my blog posts is inversely related to the amount of time I have. Or at least I think it is... it's been awhile since I've done math beyond the single-digit addition required of first graders.

To be clear, I have a lot of free time. Time I've spent visiting friends/family, training and starting my new waitressing job, reading for fun (unheard of!), cooking, and acting reeeeeeal chill about starting law school in the fall. Well, for the most part.

Who has time for blogging when you're catching up on every single TV show available On Demand? Not this girl.

The truth is, my life has been pretty uneventful now that I'm done teaching. I could tell you about working in a restaurant where I leave every day feeling like I'm coated with a thin layer of ranch dressing, but I doubt anyone would be all that interested in that. Likely, too, that people are uninterested in the other mundane details of my life, but I'll share a few of the (slightly) more interesting ones.

• I got carded going into a rated-R movie (Horrible Bosses). Great movie, and definitely not appropriate for those under seventeen. But it is appropriate for 24-year-olds (like myself).
• I made authentic southern fried chicken for the first time. I need some practice.
• I've already corrected my two-year long sleep deficit and am currently functioning on a sleep surplus. Take note, America. Maybe I could fix this whole debt issue we've got.

The Welcome Boat

I know it's normally called the welcome wagon, but I'm so special that I got welcomed into Greenville by a boat. Jack (and the rest of the people at the Greenville Drive) had the past three days off because of the All-Star Break and we got invited to spend it at a lake house in Georgia. I was a little anxious because I was going somewhere where I didn't know anyone and had no escape route besides running away. And given how my workouts have been going, I'd probably only make it about 100 yards before keeling over and crawling back to get some water.

The Fiorillos have two basic rules for making someone new feel welcome: (1) Give them a lot of alcohol and (2) Make numerous inappropriate sexual comments. Whether it's my dad subtly putting a second beer in front of you or my mom trying to make the "Shocker" symbol with her hand, people tend to loosen up pretty quickly (or they leave). This weekend (week beginning? What do you call Monday-Wednesday?) I realized that I do it to make myself more comfortable... which meant Jack's friends had better be comfortable with a little bit of drinking and several under-my-breath boner jokes. I made guacamole as a safety net in case they weren't.

It turned out being awesome- perfect weather, an entire day out on the boat, jumping off a giant rock (eek!), and more Catchphrase than I've played in the first 24 years of my life. It was a great start to the move down here, as long as all my new friends don't tire of my sense of humor.

It's a Man's World

I moved into Jack's apartment for the summer this week. I'll save my tearful Charlotte goodbyes for a later blog since my days have been mainly consumed with unpacking all my junk into the place HE'S been living for a month and a half.

Lucky for me, he cleaned up AND made space for my stuff (as he enthusiastically told me several times) so that I could get settled in, stress-free, while he was video-taping minor league baseball players "swings" (butts) until 11:00 my first day here in Greenville.

Jack and I have been dating long enough for me to know a lot about his living habits, especially since we've been long distance and generally spend several days and nights together at once. For example- he always lays his toothbrush on his toothpaste, rather than getting a cup to put them in. He cleans his ears frequently (who doesn't? Ear canals be damned!). His laundry basket always has at least one article of clothing draped over the side.

But there are little things about a person's living space that you don't pick up on until you are very conscious that you are moving in with them (even if only for the summer). And I picked up on some things that any girl needs to bring with her when moving in with ANY boy.

To be clear, I'm not picking on Jack. He has no flaws aside from the flaws that each member of his gender share (point for Sara!)

1. A box of trash bags: boys don't throw things away. Well, they SORT OF do. Jack didn't lie when he said he cleaned up for me, because he did. But I kept finding all these empty bottles and boxes on the ground. Or in the place where they would belong if they were still full. There was the half-dented Irish Spring soap box next to the shower, an empty mouthwash bottle on the sink, and an empty Advil bottle on his dresser. I think boys think that just because it won't make a mess when it isn't in the trash means they don't have to throw it away. I called my mom to investigate further.

"When I was cleaning out dad's shower yesterday, I threw away three empty bottles of shampoo."

2. Conditioner: that's because men, ever efficient, use grooming products that combine as many functions as possible. This is what is in Jack's shower:

Hair and body wash. I bet it can also be used as toothpaste and toilet cleaner. To upgrade, he bought a bottle of Head n' Shoulders 2 in 1 (specifically for me), but unless you want your hair to look like its been zapped by a taser, I suggest bringing your own beauty products.

3. A toilet brush: I don't think many boys know what this is used for. A plunger, yes, but a toilet brush, no. They'd be as lost identifying its use as they would for eyelash curlers. Most male apartments I've been in seem to have toilets that have never seen a toilet brush. I genuinely think this is because they think that the toilet is naturally stained like that (Jack's case), but bring one and show them the light. Just be sure that it's used to clean the toilet, not as some kinky sex toy (you never know when they might be confused).

4. An air freshener: not because boys smell bad (though some might). I did this because I wanted Jack to think that I (and my stuff) naturally smell like lavender and vanilla. It's even better when you can hide the air freshener so they really think it is just you. I put mine behind the bed. When Jack got home from work the day I moved in, he walked in to his room and goes, "Wow! It smells good in here."

Yeah, that's just me and my stuff. That's what I smell like all the time.

4. An open mind: women are naturally snoopers. Now necessarily because they're looking for ill intentions, but I think because they're curious and like to be in control. This needs to be reigned in when you move in with someone, because you are going to find some weird things partly because of bullet number one (their tendency to NOT throw things away). As I was bringing my stuff in, I found two very strange things.

In case you're wondering, that is a creepy plastic headband usually worn by middle-aged women in windsuits and a bottle of German baby shampoo. Now, either Jack is cheating on me with a German immigrant who is also a single mother, or these things were just left in his apartment (which is fully furnished, making it easier to leave things behind when moving out) by the former tenant (presumably a German immigrant who is also a single mother).

I'll be throwing both away with the other empty bottles.

Awkward Turtle

I HATE packing. On most occasions, I've been able to knock it out in one day, piling everything into my mom's minivan and dad's truck and then going off on my way. I'm not afforded that luxury now. Half my stuff will go to Greenville, where I'm living for the summer, and the rest goes back home, only to sit in boxes and bins and garbage bags and God knows what other types of containers until I get to start the whole process over again when I move to Boston in September. I also have way more stuff (read: junk) to account for since Charlotte was really my first home.

*Extended side note: YES, my mom still has a minivan. She bought it after all three of her kids were already in (or graduated from) college, complete with an entertainment system in the back. Why, you might ask, would a mother with kids in college need a minivan with an entertainment system in the back? When we take road trips now, we generally come in separate modes of transportation since we're coming from different places. And no one needs a DVD player when you're driving around town, especially when your town is approximately one square mile. She got it so that when her and my dad are traipsing around for retirement, she can sit in the way way back (we've always called the bench seat the way way back and I am just now realizing how juvenile it sounds in writing) and watch the Office/nap/stretch her legs out while my dad drives. But this is all beside the point.
 
So here I am, blogging up until the very last moment we have internet, surrounded by piles and piles of clothes and bedding and pens (seriously, how have I acquired so many pens over the past two years?), with nothing to do except sulk about how much packing there is to do (packing that will need to be done again in such a short amount of time). UGH.

This is my only outlet of escape. I can't watch TV because our TV's gone. I can't eat, because all our dishes are packed up. I can't work out because I am not very strategic in my clothing packing and the only thing I've left out for the past three days are my bathing suit and a pair of flip flops. I've had to pull random oversized t-shirts out of the nooks and crannies of laundry baskets and Sterilite snap bins just to go out to my car. Clearly, I'm under a little bit of pressure, especially with summer breathing down my neck and not a single thing planned out except that I'm moving to live with Jack and I'm bringing at least ten unread books. THAT'S IT. The other major stress is whether everything will fit in the truck when my dad comes down next week. Which leads me to mention- the Turtle.

The Turtle and I have a love-hate relationship. Wait... just a hate relationship. A long time ago, my parents decided that a minivan was just not big enough to pack things into when we went on long trips. They needed some kind extra space... a backpack for a car, if you will. So they bought the Turtle. A plastic hump that you strap onto the top of the car to give you a little bit more room to fit things. Why do I hate the Turtle? Let me count the ways.

1. It's loud: On a good day, the only thing you hear from the turtle is the occasional slap of one of its straps hitting the side of the car. On a bad day (meaning almost every time it was on our car), you hear the constant FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP, punctuated by a loud PING! every so often. We took a 24 hour road trip to Florida every year, usually without stopping. You do the math.
2. It's disgusting: You know what your car looks like after driving through the swampy humidity of southern states like Georgia. We'd have to draw straws for who would have to unlatch the front latch.
3. The latches: I should say "latches". There are none left. The Turtle is as old as I am, so over the years, the snaps that hold the thing shut have disappeared. You'd think that would be the cue to trash it and buy a new one (or just not have a Turtle anymore), but my thrifty father would have none of that. "There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!" he says as he cuts a wire coat hanger and threads it strategically through the clasps, securing it with pliers.
4. There IS something wrong with the Turtle: this one is going to need some sub bullets:

1. The time when the top wasn't latched down and it flew open, causing our tent and several pillows to fly off the top of our car on the side of the road. We found the tent three weeks later (What a save!).
2. The time when the top wasn't latched down and THE WHOLE TURTLE FLEW OFF OUR CAR. My dad went back and got it ("There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!").
3. The time when we crushed the turtle backing out of a carport. It got completely mangled. In my head, I was cheering- "Yes! The demise of the Turtle! They're finally going to throw it away!" My dad, banging out the dents with his hand- "There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!"
4. The time when the Turtle was leaking (aka every time after it got crushed by the carport) and we have to double pack everything in black plastic garbage bags. We looked REALLY classy unpacking this stuff when we went to Disney World.
   
5. The time when my parents showed up to move me out from college with the Turtle after I specifically asked them not to. I'm still not ready to talk about this one.
5. And finally- why is it called the Turtle when the picture on it clearly shows a snail?

I think it's obvious how much I hate the Turtle. Which is why this next statement is going to tell you just how much this whole packing thing is stressing me out. In a text message draft at approximately 8:32 pm last night, I almost asked my mom- "I'm afraid everything won't fit. Maybe you should bring the Turtle." I cringed thinking about sending it. It's like considering dating your third grade boyfriend again when you're living at home in your parents basement and you know you're better than that. But then, like magic, came the saving text from my mom- "Dad might bring an enclosed trailer on the back of the truck."

Phew! That was a close one.

*End note: I still HATE the Turtle.

Over.

I'm struggling to put into words exactly how I feel right now. My two years are up. My short-lived teaching career is over. Tomorrow, I will pack up the last pieces of my classroom and leave J. H. Gunn Elementary forever. While I do that, I'll find remnants of my students everywhere- the Disney tracings that Glenda gave me, the pencils Jaelyn tore erasers out of, the thirteen toy cars I confiscated from Sean.

I'll think of my kids from last year. Of Jacob, who figured out how multiplication worked on his own but could barely read. Of Taylor, who got a nosebleed every single day when we packed up. I'll think of Briona and the day I found bruises handprinted up her arms and onto her back. The sadness that was constantly behind Juwon's eyes.

I'll remember the days I hated it more than anything, the days when I was waiting in the parking lot at 5:25 am for the janitor to come and open the doors. The days when it was dark as I walked alone to my car. I'll remember my desperate hours spent planning, worrying, wondering how I would get some of these kids to read. I'll remember my craziest days when I wanted to go back to where I found myself after that first day, curled up in my cubby sobbing to my mom on the phone. The books and pencils and chairs that got thrown at me. The slammed doors. I'll remember the Mondays that felt like a whole week by themselves, the paperwork that took up hours of time. I'll remember the pain I felt knowing about the lives some of my kids led, lives filled with poverty and problems and neglect.

But most of all, I'll remember the moments when it all came together. When I asked how Ronaldo became such a good reader and he told me he dreamt it one night while he was sleeping. When Adrian remembered what the word elusive meant a month after we learned it. The excitement of the fun days. The hugs and high fives. The Friday dances on the bus lot. When they GOT it and their eyes lit up because they knew they got it.

My dad's always said that this is the greatest job in the world. And while I feel good about what is next for me, I can't help but think of how different life will be without those kids driving me crazy every day. Because when it came down to it, no matter what they did or said or threw, they were always just kids, growing right in front of my face and teaching me a hell of a lot more than I think they realized, a hell of a lot more than I ever thought they would.

I'll end this post with a quote from Destini's yearbook about me, which I think might be a better description of how I feel about each and every one of my kids:

My teacher is crazy and she is full of love and I want to squeeze the love out of her.... Right back at ya.

Five Days

I'm not quite ready to do my final reflection on these crazy two years I've spent teaching. I do, after all, have five more days to go (and with six and seven year olds, you never know what can happen in five days). But I am beginning to fill up with a big sense of guilt and regret about leaving. My plans for next year were put in the staff bulletin for the week and I got an e-mail shortly after from the teaching assistant who has worked in my room for the past two years.

She's seen some of the craziest moments of my teaching career, from my horrible first day (after which she told me she was surprised I came back) to the day when two kids peed their pants and one threw up within a span of 30 seconds. She was there when one of my kids threw a bin of books across the room in rage, when my autistic student ran out of the room and down the hallway. She's amazing.

Her e-mail was short, but it really hit me hard.

Miss Fiorillo, Congratulations on your new venture! I was really surprised. I thought you were a born teacher, but I know you will be successful in whatever you do. I have thoroughly enjoyed working with you the past two years. Please be sure to stay in touch!


I'm not putting that on here to try to show everyone what a fabulous teacher I was (and am, for five more days). In fact, I don't really know why I'm blogging about it. It's just another piece in the puzzle of trying to make sense of the work I've done these two years, trying to come to terms with all the challenges I've faced and the challenges my kids face. It makes it incredibly hard to leave knowing how powerful your impact can be as a teacher, but I'm still doing it. For what? Maybe I'll figure that out in my final reflection. Until then, I'm letting it sink in.

"Do you think this makes me want to invite you to my house?"

First grade teachers have to deal with a lot of problems that have nothing to do with whether their kids know how to read or do basic math (although I guess all teachers do). Because of the time of year, and all the canceled specials and outdoor recess, those problems seemed to be a lot bigger over the past two weeks. The biggest one? Our classroom bathroom.

Every day for two weeks, someone was peeing on the floor of the bathroom. It was gross. We had already had the talk that just because there's a drain (in this case, on the floor) does not mean you can pee in it. Several boys had further questions after that.

"Why not?"
"Well would you pee in a sink? That has a drain in it."
Blank stares. My thoughts- Oh God, they peed in the sink.


After that, I had everyone close their eyes and offered a Dum Dum to the student who was honest enough to admit to doing it, whether it was by accident or on purpose. Three boys raised their hands. THREE. They admitted to peeing all over the bathroom for a piece of D list candy. I had to have a talk with them, trying VERY hard not to just yell about locking it up and getting themselves under control.

"What do you think we can do to solve this problem?"

The three boys looked at me inquisitively. Then Gabriel, one of the few white kids in my class with a thick backcountry accent says, "I think maybe I might stand too far away." Yeah, that sounds like a good place to start to me.

Later that week, our toilet started spurting water out of the top, flooding the bathroom with at least an inch of standing water (good thing there's a drain!). I called the office, ready to evacuate the room for fear of rising toilet water. Luckily, the water stopped after about five minutes. Even more lucky because no one ever came down to fix it.

Which brings me to my main story. Before lunch one day, Gabriel came running out of the bathroom speaking so quickly and with such Southern twang I could barely understand him.

"I don' know what happened Miss Fi-rillo but I was jus' in the bathroom and washin' my hands and all of a sudden out of nowhere the piece fell right on off of that sink and I didn't do nothin' and it just fell and now it's sprayin' all over the place and I don' know why."

Translation: the piece that makes the sink water come out in a soft, steady stream somehow fell off. I didn't think it would be that bad until I turned on the sink and a stream of water came shooting out so hard it ricocheted off the porcelain and almost took my eye out. I hastily tried to screw it back on, but one of the pieces wouldn't fit. I left it by the sink, deciding to wait until the end of the day to call a custodian.

At the end of the day, one of my girls came to me and informed me that the metal piece of the sink had gotten thrown in the toilet. I was mad. Really mad. And really fed up with all these bathroom problems.

"IF SOMEONE DOESN'T TELL ME WHO THREW THAT PIECE IN THE TOILET, I AM CANCELING FIELD DAY FOR EVERYBODY."

Gasps. Color drained from their faces. A chorus of "I didn't do it!" rang from the class.

I calmed myself down a little bit. "I don't need to know who didn't do it," I replied, writing NO FIELD DAY in big black letters on the whiteboard. "But if I don't find out who did do it, we will be sitting inside doing MATH WORKSHEETS during Field Day."

Kids started packing up, and Gabriel starts walking sullenly to the front of the room. I should have known.

"Uh, Mis Fi-rillo?" he said, looking down. "I, uh... I think I might have been the one who threw the thing in the toilet.

"You either did it or you didn't Gabriel."

He paused for five seconds. Then- "I did it."

I made him go get it out and replace it in the original spot on the sink. While he was doing that, I erased my NO FIELD DAY message and started to meet my packed-up class on the carpet.

Just before I got there, Gabriel walked by me again.

"Well you're welcome for telling the TRUTH!" he proclaimed with his hands on his hips.

Oh right. I'm supposed to thank you when you throw stuff in the toilet. They must have skipped over that in Teach For America training.

Now that THAT's out of the way...

The depressing post, I mean. It's been a long time. For some reason I've been completely turned off by the blogging world. I blame the time of year and the situation described below. But my mom threatened to cut off my phone bill if I didn't blog soon, so I figured I HAD to write something. She also told me I needed an attitude adjustment.

Probably true.

My days have consisted of working and forgetting. I "forget" that three kids admitted to peeing on the floor in our class bathroom for a measly Dum Dum sucker (I had to get the truth out of them somehow), then explained that it might be happening because they're standing too far away from the toilet. I "forget" that one of my girls told me her butthole itched then proceeded to stick BOTH hands down her pants to scratch it.

One of my girls, a little redhead, was hanging off the monkey bars today with her shirt around her neck. Baring it all. She didn't hear me screaming pull her shirt up, but just hung there, letting the breeze cool her off. I had to run across the playground to get her to cover up her Janet Jackson-esque wardrobe malfunction. I think she thought it was okay because she had Bandaids covering up her... well, you know. Like if that part was covered she wasn't being inappropriate. I couldn't forget that story because it was too funny. I think we all wish we could be that free still.

Tomorrow, I'm going to try a little harder to stop this whole forgetting thing because as excited as I am to have only ten days left, I know I'm going to miss it. And while the part I'm going to miss only makes up about 10% of my (the other 90% being about testing and school/district administration and kids being brats and bodily fluids), it's the most important 10% of what I do.

More on that sentimental topic later, when the cabin fever of the past nine days has worn off.

Return of the First Year

I chose that title because in spite of the fact that I have been teaching for 350 days, in spite of reaching the ten day countdown in my second year, today took me back in a time machine to a feeling I was used to having in my first year. A feeling of hopelessness. A feeling of being trapped. A feeling of wanting desperately to escape. Or hide... possibly inside a small, inconspicuous cupboard.

I hate that people reading this are probably wondering how bad six and seven year olds can REALLY be. Suck it up, you're saying at home. Hear me out.

Let me paint a picture for you of the last two weeks. I get to school at 6 in the morning and prepare my classroom. This is actually my favorite part of the day. It's quiet and I have a large amount of coffee to enjoy with no one else around. I've already gotten my daily dose of adult news thanks to a 20 minute commute and NPR's early morning programming. I'm not trying to make people feel bad for me because I get up early- I would do the early morning for the rest of my life if I could.

At 7, kids get there. They unpack, start their morning work, and try not to bug me. At 7:35, the late bell rings and I close my door. I close my door very slowly because it is the last time my students and I will see the light of day until 1:45 pm. I whisper last words to the other teachers on my hall, all closing their doorways equally slowly.

Okay, okay, I'm over exaggerating. We are allowed to leave for 20 minutes to eat lunch. But because of testing, there have been no specials, no recess outside, and absolutely NO noise. Ever. And my lunch break isn't so much of a lunch break. After 10 minutes of putting food on their trays at  (they can't reach the plates themselves), I run to the bathroom for my one bathroom break of the day and scarf down my food in the remaining 10 minutes. And then we trek back to the room, silent, for the rest of the day. It feels like jail, not because I don't want to teach my kids, but because we are not allowed to leave the room and get some space from each other.

It's enough to put a strain on any relationship, but little kids need to move around. They need fresh air. They need to hear someone BESIDES me. They need a break. I NEED A BREAK. It's been nine days of this. Today, something finally snapped.

I won't go into details because it is not funny. Plus, I've been able to get over it thanks to some Starbucks, retail therapy, and a wonderfully intense power yoga class. But I wanted to be on the cyber record so that when it has been FOURTEEN days of no specials or outdoor recess, people know what happened to me when I don't return from work... yes, that's right. We still have five days of this solitary confinement left. Five more days of kids wanting to go to the hallway bathroom just for a change of scenery. Five more days of "Can we please go outside today?" Five more days.

I'm trying to stay positive. You can do anything for five days.

...except go without food. Or water. I fear this situation may be just as dire.

Real Life Quotes

From the end of year survey/letter my reading class did... yesterday was my last day with them because of the crazy testing blitz schedule at my school. Seriously though- the official admin name is the testing blitz schedule.

"My best part of Ms. Fiorillo's class is        testing       ."

"Ms. Fiorillo helped me become a better reader by testing me a lot."

"My favorite memory from Ms. Fiorillo's class is        the last time she tested me     ."

Also, this gem:
"The most important thing Ms. Fiorillo taught me is      math     ."
Except I only taught you reading. Oh well. It's the thought that counts, right?

So I want you to take a wild guess at what I'll be focused on the last 22 days of school. Yep, that's right. I'll be giving each of the kids in my class FOUR tests, one-on-one with me. I guess I'll have to save up the anxiety and nostalgia and all those other good feelings until after my 42 hours of testing is over. Talk to ya then.

Missed Moments

A lot goes down in my classroom that I do not blog about. Either I forget, can't word it right, or fall asleep before I can share it with the internet. And then my faithful twelve readers are deprived of that hilarious or important moment forever. I realized that one of my favorite stories from this year is one of those. And, as Jack just reminded me ever so kindly, now is the best time to begin blogging about it (as the Celtics/Heat game begins).

Anyway, it's short. Plus everyone knows the beginning of basketball games don't matter. Not the first five minutes, at least.

Qwaseem, one of the kids in my class this year, is one of the happiest and most carefree little kids there is. Unless he has to do something he doesn't want to do, which is 95% of all first grade requirements. Then his face turns sour, he gets mad, and he snorts and grunts like a bull.

Key difference between this year and last year? I can deal with that now. I had to escort him one-on-one out to the bus lot one day because he wouldn't leave my room with the rest of my class because he didn't get a SECOND piece of candy. He glared at me the whole walk out, slamming his bookbag on the sidewalk as he trudged along.

"Pick it up," I commanded.

"Why are you ruining my life? I hate you."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Last year that would have haunted me all weekend. This year, I'm not letting a six-year-old ruin my Friday because he didn't get his way.

NOT the story I intended to tell. The one I'm talking about happened during math class, when Qwaseem waved one finger in the air emphatically to show me that he had to use the bathroom.

"Someone's in there," I replied, "You'll have to wait."

"But I CAN'T," he whined back. "Let me go in the hall bathroom."

Unfortunately for Qwaseem, two unidentified K-2 students had been dumping our toilet paper rolls in the toilets, so student were generally not allowed to go to the hall bathrooms anymore. And I've gotten Rainman-good at being able to tell when kids can wait and when they are actually going to pee their pants. This was not one of those moments. When I told him to wait, he continued to glare at me in spite of my insistence that he just keep working to make the time go by faster.

His classmate finally came out of the bathroom, grinning because he had probably been using toilet paper as a makeshift toy car for 10 minutes while in there. "Go, Qwaseem. Sean's out."

Instead of wiggling on over to the bathroom like most first graders (and college boys) when they REALLY have to go, he stood up slowly, staring at me. Each step he took had a calculated, even slap to it, like the steps of someone walking the plank on a pirate ship. It took him about 45 seconds to walk to the bathroom like that, his eyes on me the whole time.

When he finally got to the bathroom door, he lingered for about fifteen seconds with his hand on the doorknob, still looking at me. What a drama queen, I thought, believing he'd break the stare down to finally go in. But he didn't.

He turned around, walked just as slowly across the room back to me (where I was working with another kid) and told me flat out-

"Why do you have to be WASTING my time?"

I just looked at him. Wasting your time? You're six. What else do you have to do beside these addition problems I just gave you? Tie your shoe? Oh wait, you still don't know how to tie your shoes.

Meanwhile, as Qwaseem's nostrils were flaring and daggers were shooting out of his eyes in my general direction, the sweetest kid in my class walked up to me doing the telltale "I have to pee" dance.

"Go ahead," I said to him, then turned back to Qwaseem. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."

First graders telling me that kind of stuff is one of things I will NOT miss about teaching. Along with a whole bunch of stuff I will miss. But you won't hear about that until I start getting sentimental... on the last day of school.

Appreciation

This week is Teacher Appreciation Week, with the official Teacher Appreciation Day being TODAY. What does this mean? Free chicken sandwiches for teachers at Chick-fil-A, for one thing. It also means an onslaught of gifts from kids ranging from homemade to store-bought to I found this somewhere in my house, put it in a plastic bag, and then gave it to you.

I blogged about awkward teacher gifts at the end of last year when I got (so far) the most random gift ever- a pajama romper. The roll-on gel deodorant and cologne two-pack I got Monday is in a close second... but I have high hopes (It's only Tuesday after all).

For some kids, Teacher Appreciation Week is a year-long things. One of my girls this year has brought me a gift at least once a week since school started. So far, just from her, I have accumulated:

• A shrink-wrapped toothbrush
• A Yoplait yogurt
• Several tracings of Little Mermaid scenes with captions in Spanish
• A smushed Twinkie
• A miniature Mickey Mouse snow globe 
• A Barbie band-aid
• Three Christmas tree marshmallow mints

I think she has the most potential to beat the romper, but again... still early.

To Sum Up...

My spring break can basically be described with three phrases:

1. Family/Jack
2. Bug bites
3. Party Hat

I left immediately after school on Friday and didn't come back until yesterday evening. Nothing could have ruined my trip, not even the hundreds of bug bites I got all over my body while in Florida. Hundreds? Yes, hundreds. I counted thirty-five on the lower half of one arm before I fell asleep in the sun. I look like I just fought off a deadly bout of the chicken pox, with slightly raised pink scars covering my legs, torso, neck, and face. Face? Yes, face. I had a string of about twenty going up my neck and onto my left cheek like a chicken pox hickey. And I had one on my nose.

But, like I said, nothing could ruin this trip. It was a well-needed break from my crazy class AND a reminder of the beginning of the end, a benchmark showing only 34 days remaining.

Bookending the vacation was some time spent in Greenville with Jack. The first weekend really initiated him into South Carolina lifestyle. He got to see genuine Southern hospitality (several rounds of drinks on the jolly Clemson family sitting with us at the Hibachi grill, including Patron shots and hot sake). I made him go to a Waffle House for the first time, where we got VIP seats at the breakfast bar in the smoking session. I was unaware that you could still smoke in restaurants anywhere in the United States (or the world for that matter), but if I had to guess the one state where you could, SC would be the first. I'm also convinced that in order to open a Waffle House, one of the stipulations is that everything in and around the vicinity of the building must be at least fifteen years old- the menus, the waffle irons, the waitresses' wigs.

Greenville is actually awesome. For some reason, I pictured it being more rural and run-down, but it has a cute little tree-lined main street with a lot of good restaurants, bars, and shops. Plus my boyfriend lives there, which gives it a lot of points.

Monday meant goodbye to Jack and hello to ten hours in the car listening to NPR and wondering how much better your gas mileage gets if you turn off your AC. I only tested that theory for about 15 minutes.  The drive down was unremarkable, unless you count part of my front grill flying off for no reason. Or all the truckers honking at me because I looked a little naked wearing a strapless dress. You live, you learn.

My actual vacation, on Hutchinson Island off the Atlantic Coast, is indescribable unless you are a part of or have met my mother's side of the family. The legendary Buffalo Zaprowskis, headed by the Polish and female equivalent of the Godfather, Nans (also known as the matriarch of the family and the mayor of Ocean Village, the development where we were all staying). I'll try my best to capture the highlights, especially given the fact that a majority of the people who are reading this are probably related to me.

• My first Manhattan: made by my godmother's friend, I finally gave the token family drink a try... and loved it. My grandfather's last meal was a Manhattan and a piece of cake, so it had sentimental value. Especially after the buzz kicked in.
• My uncle's drunk dials: college freshman girls have nothing on my Uncle Mark. Any chance he got he was picking up the phone and calling the few people who were NOT on the trip (aka 70% of this blog's audience). This, along with his absolutely delicious pre-noon drinks (Salty Dogs and Bloody Mary's, anyone?), earned him MVP of Spring Break.
• Karaoke at the Jetty Lounge: This place has a liquor store attached to it, one that I've been going to for almost five years before realizing that the second door led into one of the shadiest (and greatest) bars I've ever been to. The group we went with (all Buffalonians and all pumped up about the Sabres) took over, shouting random Buffalo chants into the DJ's microphone so often we almost got kicked out. The best part of the night (if you can pick one) was our 20 person rendition of "Shout," when we tried unsuccessfully to sound like we were at a Bills game. Unfortunately, no one knew the real Bills words and my cousin couldn't pull his weight with the vocals... plus I'm pretty sure the only things Bills fans want to shout are profanities.
• The burgeoning plans for Cousin's Camp 2011: I've written a post or two about Cousin's Camp... but this past week we decided that a new adult Cousin's Camp be founded... at Kristin and Ryan's apartment. Ready? Oh yeah.
• The party hat: I bought a straw fedora specifically for this trip. And I did not take it off the entire time I was there, except when I showered. It was really hard to not wear it to school this morning, even just for a few minutes, to boost my mood.
• Reclaiming my spot as the favorite cousin and grandchild: Maybe it was how cool I am to my high school cousins. Maybe it was my willingness to try a Manhattan. Maybe it was my pious observance of Good Friday while my meat-eating cousins were told by Nana that they were going to hell (this was before she forgot it was Good Friday and my cousin Laura allowed her to eat half a turkey sandwich before reminding her and telling her, "I guess I'll be seeing you in hell."). Maybe it was the party hat. Whatever it was, I'm on top. And I love it.

Nailed it.

That's all for tonight. Today really brought me back to reality, but it's going to take more than a pouting 7 year old (or two, or three) to bring me down from this kind of happiness.

Right?

When you're little, there are right choices and there are wrong choices. Example of a right choice: listening to your teacher. Example of a wrong choice: trying to fit your entire fist into your mouth during social studies. Most kids have a pretty good grasp over whether they're making a right choice or a wrong choice.  This makes my job easy because all I have to say is "What did you do?" and they usually give it all up, pouting their heads into their arms and sobbing out, "I tried to put the math manipulatives up my nose."

Not so when you are adult. Yes, there is still right and wrong but much fewer people to police the decision you are making. In elementary school, people help you choose the books you read and the lunches you eat. "That story's too easy for you," they say. "Eating too many jelly beans will give you a belly ache." As a grown-up, it's all gone. You're left to make your choices on your own and deal with the consequences, whatever they may be. How are we supposed to know whether we're on the right track when we don't have a clip chart or a report card?

I got to thinking about it this week mainly because I was getting a little freaked out about submitting my law school deposit (which I did today). Eek. It didn't help when a rather distant acquaintance informed me at TFA learning teams that "This is, like, the worst time EVER to go to law school." Really? No way. I thought going into six figures of debt was ALWAYS a good decision (and, on a side note, it's not a very good time to do anything right now, including find a job, buy gas, or visit Japan... so what's your point?). It got me more freaked out. How am I sure I'm doing the right thing? How do I know?

Well, to start, I don't know. And I don't think I'll ever know. That's a hard thing to accept, especially for a crazy planning organizing psycho like myself. I don't go to sleep without planning out what I'm going to eat the next day, so you can imagine how frequently I've tried to map out my life. It hardly ever works that way, because something always gets in the way. And if it doesn't, you're spending the whole time wondering when something MIGHT get in the way. I'm trying to do that with my next steps and I had to remind myself last night that things might never work out the way I plan for them to. And sometimes they might work out exactly the way I plan for them to. There's just no way of knowing for sure.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've decided to just pretend I know for sure. To go at it blind. To move forward with such confidence in purpose that only good things can happen to me because I refuse to see them as anything else. TFA had this silly icebreaker game from Minute to Win It on Monday. Before it even started, I knew I was going to win. Why? Because you won a plastic egg full of candy and I wanted it. Because I'm competitive. But mostly because I made my mind up that I was going to do it. I didn't know how- though I love cookies I've never practiced moving them around my body using twitching motions- but I did end up winning. And devouring the stupid egg.

I know not everything works like that, but I think the mindset helps. Hey, I went into teaching like that and look where it got... oh crap.

This post is rambling on, but I'm convinced that if I've made it this far relying on my gut and a whole lot of faith, I'll be just fine.

The Nod

I went for a run yesterday in the neighborhood next to my apartment complex. I love going over there, especially in the spring, because the houses are all beautiful brick ones with rolling lawns and huge old trees. There are usually a lot of people walking around too, meaning my run is frequently interrupted by friendly waves and smiles. Which I like.

For awhile, I hated running outside. I hated passing other runners who would give you what I like to call the runner's nod, a cursory head jerk acknowledging that you are both fitness machines. More often than not, I felt like the nod was filled to the brim with judgment- What does she think she's doing out here? the nod would say. She's not a runner! Poser!


I blame my dad.

Why? When we were little, we did a lot of driving around town. I'm not really sure why. I remember piling leaves on top of my dad's creepy child-molester looking van (a red and white Dodge caravan with a three-seat bench in the middle and a huge trunk... who buys that for real? Even if you do have to carry hurdles and shotputs around?) and driving down the street, watching them fly off the roof as my sister, brother, and I crouched looking out the back window. Not safe on a NUMBER of levels. We did the same thing with snow.

Anyway, we drove around a lot. And whether we were on road trips or just driving in an unsafe manner around Painted Post, my dad did this thing when he would see people running on the side of the road. He categorized them into one of three categories.

Category 1- runner. These were the people whose calves would ripple with each lightning-quick step, the people running almost as fast as your car. They were always tan. They were always focused.

Category 2- jogger. Less fashionable running clothes, not quite as tan, and not quite as fast, but all of the joggers looked as if they had a pretty high level of general fitness. Nothing too impressive, but then everyone can't be. This brings us to category 3, the reason why I feel self-conscious running on busy roads or outside in general.

Plodder. Picture a multi-colored windsuit stretching and pulling at the hips and buttocks as if something underneath is trying to squeeze its way out. Picture scrunchies. Picture a person who stops excessively, usually falling over when they try to stretch out their quad. Picture a person putzing along so slowly, so pathetically, that it can't even be considered running. They'd be better off walking. Or crawling. At least then they wouldn't be calling it running. That's a plodder.

Obviously I'm not a plodder, especially since I'm in the Sports Hall of Fame (don't know if everyone knew this). I probably used to be though, and the idea of someone driving by and grouping me in with the windsuited, scrunchy type was too much for me to bear. So I avoided it.

Yesterday was probably the first day that I got a nod that did not scream "Plodder!", even if those nods were completely dreamed up in my head. I finally got a nod that hinted I might actually be a runner now, a veteran of the streets.

Or maybe it's just southern manners. I'll never know.

The Little Things

Yesterday was a bad day. See previous post. Today seemed worse... and not because something happened that was worse than one of my babies leaving me.

What happened? I wouldn't say it was just one thing. The kids were fine today, apart from me having to work my butt off to keep Mr. Hyperactive from tearing my room apart. After school, though, I found out a major problem with the one-on-one testing I've been doing all week. I kind of got thrown under the bus. But it happens, and even though it sucks, it's something that has to happen. I ended up spending two and half hours after school pulling stuff that will keep my kids busy all day (NOT an easy feat), which is what put me in my initial bad mood.

Then, the little things took over.

When I say little things, I mean things that seem pretty minor unless they happen to you on a bad day. Example? Stubbing your toe. That hurts. A lot. You almost always say "fuck" when you stub your toe. Chuck Norris winces when he stubs his toe. But no one ever feels bad for you when it happens because it happens to everyone. Arguably, that's what makes those things suck. Because as much as they hurt, you never get any sympathy... just a "Suck it up."

Other little things that suck:

• Running into the corner of a table and getting an instant bruise.
• Breaking a nail. And I don't mean an "Oh no, I chipped my manicure" kind of break. I mean the kind of nail break that makes your finger about as useless as not having opposable thumbs. The kind that leaves you unable to pick up dimes for a week.
• Dropping a stack of very particularly organized papers. On a windy day.
• Scraping your knee (insert overplayed Family Guy clip)

I bet you never saw it coming that every single one of those things happened to me at once today as I walked to my car. Let me paint the picture- I was reaching into my bag to get my keys, carrying a plastic bin full of worksheets for my kids tomorrow. Distracted, I stubbed my toe. I flew forward. I reached forward to brace myself on my car, tore of my thumbnail, jammed the bin into my ribcage (not the exact equivalent of running into the corner of a table, but close enough), then fell to the concrete and scraped my knee. The papers? In the air. Blowing all over the parking lot.

Not that I'm trying to get anyone to feel bad for me (I am though), but it sucked. Rotten disgusting cherry on top of my pretty bad day. I fumed about it and wrote this blog in my head on the commute home and remained angry until a peanut butter DQ Blizzard erased most of the trauma. Except the stubbed toe and broken nail. Those HURT.

Stability

Learning from a traumatic lesson today. One of my favorite kids, or at least my most quirky and adorable one, had his last day today unexpectedly because of a parent custody issue. His mom came in during the middle of the day out of nowhere and 15 minutes later, he was gone. Moved. He came to school with everything normal, believing he'd be back home at 2:00. I came to school believing he'd be in my class the rest of the year. If it was traumatic for me to have to say goodbye to him so abruptly, I can't even imagine what it would be like for him.

The most heartbreaking part is the fact that this kid is below grade level but has finally been getting it. Things have been clicking for him and he's been growing like crazy the last few weeks. Now he'll be at a new school, probably back at square one because he's not used to their expectations and routines. I worry about him.

It made me grateful for the sense of stability I have in my own life, even though I've been complaining about it since January. No matter how much things are up in the air with school and jobs and all of that, ultimately I know that I'm coming home to the same apartment every day and can trust that the people supporting me will be there for me. It's a perspective shift.

And with that shift I make my official announcement- da da da DA- that I WILL be going to law school next year, officially. No more "Well, I don't know..." or "I haven't decided yet...". BU School of Law, here I come. I'm taking advantage of the solid ground I have under my feet and just biting the bullet. My deposit check is written, sealed, and ready to be mailed. Although maybe I won't mail it just yet...

Some things might never change.

Telepathy

Sending out several telepathic messages tonight:

• To law schools not responding- "Accept me. Accept me. I'm racially ambiguous looking and in TFA. Win win. Accept me."
• To my kids- "Please stay in your seat. Please do your work. Please do not pretend to be blindfolded karate ninjas during indoor recess."
• To my kids' eyes- "God, I hope that's allergies and not pinkeye."
• To my hair- "Hang in there. I'll buy a new straightener when I have more than $14 in my checking account."
• To the weather- "Stop raining."
• To my coffeemaker- "My coffee better be STRONG tomorrow."

Random assortment of thoughts leading me out of hump day. Feel free to send some messages my way, including, "Please stop blogging about stupid things."