My first book was "Are You My Mother?" by P.D. Eastman. I used to sit on my little brother's lap and make him listen as I read out loud (something my college roommates know that I LOVE to do):
"Are you my mother?" I'd look down at him squirming and pause. "No," I'd reply to myself with conviction. "I am NOT your mother."
Since that first book, I was hooked. I read all the time. It's part of the reason why I wanted to teach- because I love reading and writing enough to major in it in college (read: English) and actually enjoy when I had papers assigned on 400 page novels. I no longer sit on anyone as I read, but you will find it pretty difficult to interrupt me. It's like I'm in a different world. People have screamed my name and thrown objects (and missed) but I don't skip a beat. It's because when I read, I'm in it. I think in the voice of the author. I add myself into the plot. I have to finish the book in a day or I risk dreaming myself back into, which only serves to confuse me when I start reading the next day.
My latest book was Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I'm a little behind on that fad, because it's already come out on Netflix, but oh well. If you haven't heard about it, it's classified on its back cover as a murder mystery/family saga/love story/financial intrigue, so you can imagine how freaked out I was to have 100 pages left at 3 am. I was far enough in to be at the most horrifying part, but not far enough in to reach resolution. I was also at the absolute end of my energy; I had no choice but to go to sleep. Turning off the light, I laid in bed, swearing I'd see a shadow in my window just beyond my foot board. Forget that the story happens in Sweden. I was in a half awake, half nightmare state. I should have just finished the book.
Then it happened. A figure- in my door, just standing there.
"What the hell?" I called out sleepily.
"I need to sleep in here. It's too damn hot." Great time for my mom to open my door and stand as a haunting shadow for thirty seconds. I should only be allowed to read scary books in the daytime.
*Note: the book isn't actually that scary. Very good, no doubt, but really not that scary. I'm just a baby.
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Friday, July 9, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
It's supposed to be!
I was going to save this anecdote for my Mother's Day post, but I had such a vivid recollection of it last night that I have to include it now.
When I was little we weren't allowed to quite anything. NOTHING. You signed up and you basically were in it for life (probably why I play volleyball through college). My mom, being the avid swimmer, made us all take swimming lessons with the hope that one of us would carry on the Zaprowski family tradition. A side note: this attempt was a complete failure, given that I can barely stay afloat in the deep end without swallowing a gallon of water and Jon swims like Diddy Kong.
One night at swim practice I was trying (as usual) to communicate that I hated any kind of movement at all and just wanted to sit on the heater, read a book, and eat a stick of margarine. I got to the end of the pool after about 50 laps (realistically, it was probably one) and looked up at my mom.
"Mom," I whined. "I want to get out. This is hard."
She looked at me, vengeance and rage boiling up from her toes straight into her eyes. "Hard?" She barked. "It's SUPPOSED to be hard!" Then she threw her clipboard in the pool next to me, splashing water up my nose and nearly drowning me.
Maybe that's not exactly how it happened, but it's how I like to remember it. It was a pretty defining moment for me. What reminded me of it was my hot yoga class the other night... also known as an hour long wet t-shirt contest with stretching. I had an unfortunate position by one of the heaters and to date it was the hottest class I've ever been to. Uncomfortably hot. Unbearably hot. At the end I was just standing there. Not in child's pose, showing that I was struggling and needed a break. Just standing hunched over, breathing heavily through my mouth and thinking, "I want to get out. This is hot." That's when I had the image of my yoga instructor, reincarnated into a weird hybrid between my mom and dad, coming over and barking in my face, "Hot?! It's SUPPOSED to be hot!"
And he would be right. After all, it is hot yoga. And most things- at least most things that are worthwhile-are supposed to be hard.
When I was little we weren't allowed to quite anything. NOTHING. You signed up and you basically were in it for life (probably why I play volleyball through college). My mom, being the avid swimmer, made us all take swimming lessons with the hope that one of us would carry on the Zaprowski family tradition. A side note: this attempt was a complete failure, given that I can barely stay afloat in the deep end without swallowing a gallon of water and Jon swims like Diddy Kong.
One night at swim practice I was trying (as usual) to communicate that I hated any kind of movement at all and just wanted to sit on the heater, read a book, and eat a stick of margarine. I got to the end of the pool after about 50 laps (realistically, it was probably one) and looked up at my mom.
"Mom," I whined. "I want to get out. This is hard."
She looked at me, vengeance and rage boiling up from her toes straight into her eyes. "Hard?" She barked. "It's SUPPOSED to be hard!" Then she threw her clipboard in the pool next to me, splashing water up my nose and nearly drowning me.
Maybe that's not exactly how it happened, but it's how I like to remember it. It was a pretty defining moment for me. What reminded me of it was my hot yoga class the other night... also known as an hour long wet t-shirt contest with stretching. I had an unfortunate position by one of the heaters and to date it was the hottest class I've ever been to. Uncomfortably hot. Unbearably hot. At the end I was just standing there. Not in child's pose, showing that I was struggling and needed a break. Just standing hunched over, breathing heavily through my mouth and thinking, "I want to get out. This is hot." That's when I had the image of my yoga instructor, reincarnated into a weird hybrid between my mom and dad, coming over and barking in my face, "Hot?! It's SUPPOSED to be hot!"
And he would be right. After all, it is hot yoga. And most things- at least most things that are worthwhile-are supposed to be hard.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Well, um, Actually a Pretty Nice Little Saturday
A much needed break this weekend. Getting home on Friday night I went into a four hour coma, only to wake up and have a date with my roommates, our couch, a huge bowl of guacamole, and a Blue Moon. YUM. Follow that with another 11 hours of sleep and you've got one recharged human being for the next morning.
I met with my Program Director at Starbucks to talk over the first week. She popped in on Thursday morning to observe my classroom (after a frantic e-mail on Wednesday night) and we talked a lot about how to make my room better and what to do if situations like Tuesday and Wednesday's happen again. I felt great afterward, so I decided to celebrate by buying two pairs of totally impractical stilettos with money that I don't have. When I say impractical, I mean that one pair is only appropriate for going OUT on the town (something I'll be doing so much, judging from my 7 pm bedtime Friday night). I proceeded to take a nap, take a shower, and curl my hair for a little over an hour. In short, I did NOTHING and it was absolutely glorious.
There was a TFA party in NoDa for three of our corps members' birthdays, and it was good to talk to other people who had problems in their first week too... made me feel a little less like a failure since everyone I had talked to before that had only thumbs up about everything they did. There was one college moment when Backstreet Boys and Journey came on, and it made me miss it (and the lack of responsibility, and the generally higher coolness level of my life).
BUT it's also energizing to think about what I'm doing now, even though it's hard as hell and I suck at it, because in the end I'm going to be doing something for these kids that may completely alter their futures. If I get them on and above grade level after this year, then they have a better chance being at the same place for second grade, third grade, fourth grade, and every grade after that. In that way, I feel like I can close the gap before it even starts. Even if they don't remember first grade, I think this age sticks with you whether you realize it or not.
My first grade teacher, Mrs. Roth (an ancient old lady who smelled like coffee), wrote on my last report card of first grade that someday I would write the Great American novel. Now, clearly I'm not there yet, not even close, but I majored in creative writing, I love writing, and it's something I think about every day as a future option. It wasn't her that defined it as a major life path for me, but she sure did see it coming.
Maybe that's what I'll be for these kids, some invisible force behind their whole education driving them towards that future goal of theirs, whatever it might be. I'm ending this post with a quote my mom sent me this week after the second day (and meltdown number 2):
"In teaching you cannot see the fruit of a day's work. It is invisible and remains so, maybe for twenty years."
- Jacques Barzun
I met with my Program Director at Starbucks to talk over the first week. She popped in on Thursday morning to observe my classroom (after a frantic e-mail on Wednesday night) and we talked a lot about how to make my room better and what to do if situations like Tuesday and Wednesday's happen again. I felt great afterward, so I decided to celebrate by buying two pairs of totally impractical stilettos with money that I don't have. When I say impractical, I mean that one pair is only appropriate for going OUT on the town (something I'll be doing so much, judging from my 7 pm bedtime Friday night). I proceeded to take a nap, take a shower, and curl my hair for a little over an hour. In short, I did NOTHING and it was absolutely glorious.
There was a TFA party in NoDa for three of our corps members' birthdays, and it was good to talk to other people who had problems in their first week too... made me feel a little less like a failure since everyone I had talked to before that had only thumbs up about everything they did. There was one college moment when Backstreet Boys and Journey came on, and it made me miss it (and the lack of responsibility, and the generally higher coolness level of my life).
BUT it's also energizing to think about what I'm doing now, even though it's hard as hell and I suck at it, because in the end I'm going to be doing something for these kids that may completely alter their futures. If I get them on and above grade level after this year, then they have a better chance being at the same place for second grade, third grade, fourth grade, and every grade after that. In that way, I feel like I can close the gap before it even starts. Even if they don't remember first grade, I think this age sticks with you whether you realize it or not.
My first grade teacher, Mrs. Roth (an ancient old lady who smelled like coffee), wrote on my last report card of first grade that someday I would write the Great American novel. Now, clearly I'm not there yet, not even close, but I majored in creative writing, I love writing, and it's something I think about every day as a future option. It wasn't her that defined it as a major life path for me, but she sure did see it coming.
Maybe that's what I'll be for these kids, some invisible force behind their whole education driving them towards that future goal of theirs, whatever it might be. I'm ending this post with a quote my mom sent me this week after the second day (and meltdown number 2):
"In teaching you cannot see the fruit of a day's work. It is invisible and remains so, maybe for twenty years."
- Jacques Barzun
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