A Memory

The other day I was telling Sam and Eloise about my high school math teacher, Mr. Froelich. Mr. Froelich was someone I really admired. He loved math and was no nonsense about teaching. He knew how to explain a concept. He wore a pocket protector to protect his white shirt pocket where he carried 3 or 4 pens. He had a subtle sense of humor but wasn't bothered when he didn't get a laugh. Students liked him in the way they like a teacher who challenges them but doesn't try to be a friend. When you went to Mr. Froelich's class, you did your work and learned some math.

Later, as a teacher myself, I realized that one of my favorite things about Mr. Froelich was how he quietly locked the door each morning when the tardy bell rang. No big deal. You're late, you wait. Mr. Froelich unlocked the door when it wasn't interrupting his lesson to do so. This was usually just a couple of minutes into class, but geez, he made his point. Then, when you finally entered the room, you just took your seat, where materials waited for you, and got to work.

I was personally familiar with Mr. Froelich's tardiness policy because I was routinely tardy my junior year for his first period class. My best friend, J, took me to school every day that year and being on time was not her thing. I must have been tardy twice a week for an entire spring semester. Mr. Froelich's subtle yet consequential approach to tardies applied directly to me.

Besides being locked outside his door each week, another consequence of the tardies was that I had to take the final test for his class. This was something students tried to avoid, and if you had good attendance and met some grade benchmark, you were excused from finals. It's odd, but rarely did I take a final test in my high school career.

But I did take Mr. Froelich's test, and thanks to his good teaching and the genuine interest he had fostered, I remember actually enjoying his final test. The next day, when I stopped by his room to ask how I had performed, he said, "You got them all. Now get out of here and have a good summer."

That's my memory of Mr. Froelich. He was all about respect for the math, and I respected him for that.

An Ache

Remember that time I threw my back out while cleaning for our annual holiday party? It was two years ago but only seven blog posts away. Sheesh. Anyway, that same spot has been an ache in my side (literally) on and off since then.

I've decided that in 2019 I'm going to stabilize my spine and work toward a stronger core. How will I do that, you ask? By reading some books, obviously. Just this week I picked up 8 Steps to a Pain-Free Back, The Younger Next Year Back Book, and Relief Is In the Stretch from our local library.

The plan is to follow the suggestions in those books and also take pilates with a highly recommended teacher in our neighborhood.

Watch out, ache. I've totally got you covered.

A Person

For this January Blogging Challenge post, I'm going to unearth some writing I started a few months back but never finalized. It's some writing about a person. That person is my husband, Dave.

This past fall, Dave was on a mission to take out a red squirrel that had been building his winter nest in our attic. This was nothing new. Every year there's at least one red squirrel who finds its way into the house and Dave's psyche. We've all witnessed his obsession with red squirrels, and now whenever either kid sees a red squirrel, he or she stops what they are doing, points like a hunting dog, and shouts, "Dad, red squirrel!" Then the three of them gather at the window to track the movements of the tiny, albeit fierce, creature.

So, without my saying yes and without my saying no, Dave acquired a BB* gun to deal with the red squirrels and other small creatures who wreak havoc on our house and yard. I have, of course, mixed feelings about this. I understand the need for removal of the creatures and prefer this method, I think, to poison. But I'm also someone who prefers the settling of disputes in diplomatic, violent-free ways. In my conflicted state, I stayed out of the conversation and lo and behold, I now have to mark that line on our pediatrician's safety checklist that states we have a gun in the house. Ugh.

Dave's red squirrel mission took up much of his evening and weekend time in October. As the weather began to cool to fall temperatures, we had screens off and windows wide open while Dave watched for his target. This often went on for hours while Dave waited for the perfect shot -- one that would not alarm (or hit) the neighbors or workers building the addition to their house directly in sight with the squirrel's usual route.

Then, finally, on Halloween evening before the trick-or-treating began, it happened. Dave shot the squirrel. The look of pride and satisfaction on his face was worth the weeks of wearing our coats in the house. We were all very happy for Dave and that this squirrel chapter had closed.

Except that it hadn't. You see, Dave did hit the squirrel with a pellet, of that part he was sure, but of the directness of the hit, he couldn't say. He did see the squirrel run up to a low branch on a nearby tree and lie down. And after 30 minutes of stillness, he did declare that the squirrel was dead (and also likely to fall eventually onto the neighbor's gazebo).

Can you believe, though, that after those 30 minutes when we had all given up the watching and had gotten the Halloween costumes on, one of the kids shouted, "Dad, red squirrel!" and a bloody critter with tail waving in the breeze came running along the fence headed toward the house? It's true. It did. On that very Halloween our resident red squirrel came back to life and zombied across our yard.

The kids and I laughed so hard.

Then, a couple of weeks later Dave sent me a picture of a dead red squirrel which I opened while sipping tea at the hair salon.

*Dave would like for me to add that this is a high-velocity pellet gun that takes out the creatures humanely with "one-shot."

A Challenge

Blogging pal, MM, has given me just what I need to get this blog going in 2019. She's asking us to join her in writing 8-10 posts from the Minnesota Writing Project Instagram prompts. I love this idea for several reasons: 1) I like supporting my colleagues at MWP, 2) I like reading the posts of others who have taken on the challenge, and 3) I like having the motivation to write and a little help with the topics, too.

So, the challenge: Getting out the door without losing my cool.

I want to raise kids who go with the flow and take things as they come. Yet just about every morning I sabotage this goal by shouting (or stating with obvious urgency) that we are late and "SHOULD BE DRIVING IN THE CAR ALREADY!" Then we all scramble in tense frustration until we are belted into the car and moving along. Finally.

My kids are just kids. They want to spend part of their morning throwing paper airplanes at a designated target and building a fort with every available throw pillow and blanket for their rubber-banded together stuffed animals. They can't help that we need to leave in 5 minutes from the time they've started this play and both still need to brush teeth and put on socks. They're kids!

So, my challenge is to keep calm as I remind them that these things need to happen and they need to happen NOW. Sure, we could get up earlier so there's time for airplanes and forts along with brushing teeth and sock adorning, but in my 8 years of parenting, the lateness seems to happen no matter when we get up. It creeps up on us every single day, and while I can't change the creeping, I can change my reaction to it (which is exactly the life lesson I'm trying to impart on my kids without actually modeling it all that often).

Just Words. Mine.

I can't really explain what happened to this blog, but it happened. We should all probably let that go.

So, here's an idea. I'm going to do some writing here again. Sure, no one's checking the blog now, but I trust the universe (mostly) and things will turn around.

Let's get started.

I won't go into the details here, for now, at least, but it's been a rough couple of years. It's also been a wonderful couple of years (years are strange that way) and I kind of got lost in the hustle and bustle of kids and spouse and work and then not working and just life in general.

I'm trying to find a self-care routine that works for me, and historically, writing has always been part of that. I like the practice of stepping back and storying the details of my life in a way that's humbling and sometimes funny or profound. And even when it's none of those, there's still the writing. The moving of my fingers on this keyboard. It feels good. It feels right.

No promises for consistency or quality. Just words. Mine.

The Tao of Eloise

In the car the other day:

Sam: I really love music. I think I'll be a music player when I grow up.  

Me: I can see that.  

Sam: There should be a saying that goes, "Music is power." 

Me: Yeah. Wow.  

Eloise: And I have a saying that goes, "How did you get there, Bear?"

This Is Three

Here's a story I'm capturing for posterity:

Now that Eloise is in preschool, she knows things. And when she doesn't know things, then no one does.

Allow me to illustrate:

Me: How was Sam's soccer practice.
Eloise: Good. I met a friend. Her had a case here [points to arm] because her falled on the monkey bars at her school.
Me: Oh, you mean a cast. That's called a cast on her arm.
Eloise: Or case. We don't know. Nobody knows actually. 

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.