Oh no she didn't!

I was sitting on the floor of the gym's semi-private loft when I heard her say it:

"I am just so sick of teacher's complaining about not making enough money! I mean, they have summers off, for heaven's sake!"

Thank goodness I could see her, but she couldn't see me.

Because she if she had, she would have passed out, right then and there, from the daggers of firing I was shooting at her through my eyes.

Oh no, she didn't.

She did not just go there, in front of 50+ other women lined up to take my Body Pump class.

The Body Pump class I teach after I work a 15-hour day at the high school.

The Body Pump class I teach because, as an educator, I don't make enough money to just have one job.

The Body Pump class I teach because it's the only way my husband and I can afford a gym membership.

Because as a teacher, I have to deal with crappy health benefits.

Because as a teacher, I can't pay for almost anything you enjoy, lady: That boob job you were bragging about last week; the four-karat anniversary ring your husband bought you; the fancy, dermatological skincare line you preached about to anyone who would listen just a little less than a month ago.

Because as a teacher, I make half of what you do as a wine connoisseur for several of the area's local restaurants.

Yeah, sure, sometimes there are days I wish I had your job.

Although I imagine taste-testing wines and pairing them with various forms of Pan-Asian, French and Italian cuisine must be mind-bogglingly difficult and stressful.

Because seriously, who wouldn't need a summer vacation from a life filled with fine wine and Pan-Asian, French and Italian cuisine?

Heaven help me, dear friends, I almost climbed off that loft and slugged her right in her materialistic, microdermabrasion-ed face.

But by the grace of God I stayed put.

And fumed. Silently. But with purpose.

How dare she?

How dare she criticize this country's second-lowest paid profession?

How dare she deny living wages to women and men who become parents to children that our modern world has left figurative orphans?

How dare she look down her nose at teachers, who never work 9-to-5, don't-bring-work-home-with-them jobs?

She doesn't have children. She doesn't work with children. I know that. I understand that.

And that's exactly the problem. She and people like her are the very reason teachers don't make more money; they're the very reason stay-at-home moms don't get enough respect.

They're the very reason that bigwig professionals look down their noses at parents who sacrifice profit for time with their families, teachers who sacrifice higher-paying careers for working where they're needed, and politicians who sacrifice legislative support by placing our children and their well-being first.

But still, I just sat there, silently yelling all this at the lady and her plastic-surgery enhanced body - all within my own head.

Because yeah, sure, I don't make a lot of money.

But I also build relationships.

I see children's faces light up when they learn how to write a poem.

I have kids crawl into my arms when they experience trial and tribulation.

I watch kids overcome poverty, oppression and learning disabilities and go on to go to college.

I lay down completely exhausted at the end of the day, still unable to sleep, because I'm still working. I'm still worried about "my kids," praying for "my kids," and crying over "my kids."

I've also almost quit my job five times. I've literally started writing out resignation letters. I've been bullied by my own students, laughed at, sworn at, picked on.

I've driven kids home, cheered them on in their sports games, chaperoned their field trips and dances.

I've cleaned up vomit and blood. I've witnessed drug busts and abuse. I've watched homelessness and depression.

I've pushed kids too far. I haven't challenged kids enough.

I've seen bad teachers get promoted. I've seen good teachers burn out and leave.

I've had to call Child Services on parents. I've had to argue with my bosses. I've had to scream at the top of lungs on a phone call with an administrator in order to get "my kids" proper classroom supplies.

I bring work home with me. I work on the weekends. I work in the evenings. I was with my students the week after Christmas last year. I worked most of my so-called "summer vacation."

I haven't worked less than an 10-hour day since I became a teacher. I've resented my job. I've hated my job. I've dreaded my job.

I've loved my job.

And yes, it is a job. I get paid to do it. But I don't get paid enough. Not even close.

And I don't stay in my job because of the money. Not even close.

And I wouldn't trade it or "my kids" for all the boob jobs, skincare products, four-carat diamonds, wine and fine cuisine in the world.

Even if I'm always a poor teacher, who will eventually become a poor mother.

Even if I'm always a second-class citizen in the professional world.

Even if I always have to work from home, take on second jobs, or cut corners to make sure "my kids" and my future children are safe, respected and loved.

Because our world may have given my job a marked-down price tag.

But for me, my job is truly priceless.

***

Happy Friday everyone!

I realize I've been a little bit on-my-soapbox as of late. For those of you that have supported me today and yesterday, especially, thank you so, so much! Your comments yesterday made me cry and truly touched my heart!

I get riled up more often than I like sometimes, and the grace you all extend is so appreciated!

Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend! Meet me back here next week for a little Not Me! Monday action!

No longer paralyzed by imperfection

Sometimes, I wait days before I fold my clean laundry.

Sometimes, I order take-out instead of going to the grocery store.

Sometimes, I dream about telling some of my co-workers what I really think of them.

And it wouldn't be very nice.

But I'm not stopping there.

Occasionally, I go to bed hungry. Because I really, really hate my thighs.

Once in a while, I go shopping. Because it makes me feel better about a bad day.

And every now and again, I don't like my job. Because my students drive me so crazy that I forget why I felt called to education in the first place.

Scared yet?

I am. A little.

But I'm still not done.

My purse is dirtier than most diaper bags.

I rarely shave my legs.

I never vacuum under my furniture.

I hate Halloween.

I'm afraid of needles, sharp knives and fire.

I have little patience for immaturity.

I have a T.V. in my bedroom.

I don't like (most) chick lit.

I refuse to wear thong underwear.

I think married couples who brag about being "overly sexually active" are lying.

My socks never match.

I never straighten my hair.

I don't know how to cook red meat.

I'm really self-conscious about my appearance and my voice.

I get bored in church.

I'm not as flexible as my friends think I am.

I never admit that I really like to be alone.

You still with me? Wanna know what the heck is going on around here?

Here's the thing: I've been emboldened.

I've been bolstered by several of you out there, several of my fellow blogging ladies who have taken a stand for open, brutal, nitty-gritty, sometimes-painful honesty. (You all know who you are. Thank you:)

You see, blogging has created, for me at least, a beautiful community of women that I genuinely love and care for. Seriously, you girls are the best. There are moments when nothing but a comment from one of you all can pick me up from the deepest of slumps.

But sometimes, occasionally, once in a while, I get a little intimidated.

By all of you.

Because, as I scour your blogs, all I can see is perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect wives, perfect mothers, perfect household wares, perfect feelings, perfect abilities to make life's little moments into full-on spiritual awakenings.

Seriously, you all are perfect.

Or, at least, you seem that way.

And me?

Well, I'm not.

There.

I said it.

I'm not perfect.

Because sometimes, I crave chicken wings and hot dogs more than I crave salads.

Because sometimes, I'll go far too long without showering.

And because sometimes, I wear old, ratty sweatpants to bed, even though my husband hates them.

And yet, I don't know if you all know that.

I don't know if you all know that sometimes, I cry when I find out one of you is pregnant.

I don't know if you all know that sometimes, I feel frumpy when I look at the cute designer clothes you all wear.

I don't know if you all know that sometimes, I'm jealous of your homes, your handbags, and your innate ability to stay stick thin without a bit of exercise.

Maybe I'm self-censoring. Maybe I'm playing my own version of "Keeping Up With The Joneses." Maybe I just can't put my full-on reality out there for you all to see.

Maybe I'm just scared.

I'm scared that you all will judge me because I can't afford J. Crew. I'm scared you all will look down on me because sometimes I yell at my husband. I'm scared you all will pity me because I will never, ever be able to wear skinny jeans.

And I'm not sure why.

Because you all are so supportive, so loving. You leave gracious compliments and wonderful insights every day around here.

I find I'm a lucky blogger, in fact. I've gotten few hateful e-mails. I haven't ostracized too many followers. (Yet. I hope today doesn't change that.)

In fact, the only anonymous commenter I get is my father, who always betrays his alias by signing all anonymous comments "~Dad."

Blogging has literally surpassed so many of my expectations that I count myself blessed every day to be among this little community we have.

But you know what else I do?

I shop more. Because I find I "have to have" that sweater I saw on Blah Blah's blog or that lunch sack I saw on Yadda Yadda's blog.

I exercise more. Because if I ever get the nerve up to post photos of myself on Workout Wednesdays, I don't want you all to be disappointed that, indeedy, I lack a six pack.

I clean more. Because I don't want you all to see clutter in the the background of my home photos and consider me a subpar housekeeper.

And I hide more. Because I don't want you all to see the errors I make or the falls I take. (Or the horrible rhymes in which I partake.)

But the thing blogging has proved to me, more than anything else, is that I can't be alone in this.

Because if I do something, think something, or pray for something, and then post about it, I will always find somebody else who's done the same thing. I'll always find some other commenter giving me the good old "Amen, sister!" I'll always feel an overwhelming swell of support from women bloggers out there who, unbeknownst to me, were thinking/feeling/praying over the exact. same. thing.

So, again, I can't be alone in this.

I can't be alone in loving blogging and simultaneously feeling unworthy because of it.

I can't be alone in cheering on newly pregnant blogfriends while feeling overwhelmed with jealousy because it's not me writing the "We're Expecting" post.

I can't be alone in doubting my abilities as a wife, future mother, Christian, teacher, trainer, friend, and neighbor whilst still being inspired by all of you who are such fabulous wives, mothers, Christians, teachers, trainers, friends, and neighbors.

I can't be the only one who feels called to write a post like this but still fears condemnation because of it.

Or at least, I hope I'm not alone.

Because I am not perfect.

There's a reason my blog isn't peppered with photographs. It's harder to mask the messy truth the camera can capture.

Words can gloss over my little idiosyncrasies.

So, if my words have ever made you all feel intimidated, I apologize. Trust me when I saw I often have a messy home, a grumpy husband, and a half-finished work day behind those words.

Trust me when I say that every time I put my words out here, I fear reproach. Not as much as I used to, but I still fear it. With every. single. post.

Trust me when I say from this point on, I don't intend to hide my imperfections from you all anymore.

I don't intend to disguise the fact that I'm a woman with a propensity for all things Target and Old Navy rather than Banana Republic and Lilly Pulitzer.

I won't hide the fact that I'm terrified my husband is joining the military.

And I refuse to mask the fact I'd give almost everything up to have a baby in the next year of my life.

It's not fair to you all. Because while I want you all to come to my blog and find laughs and love, I also want you all to come here and find truth.

My truth. All of our truths.

Not just because we all need to say them, but because sometimes, we all need to hear them.

We need to hear that we all are self-conscious; that we all drink too much coffee; that we all are too tired to humor our husbands sometimes.

We all need to hear it.

To know we're not alone. To know that in all honesty, there's nothing wrong with any of us. To know that any blog "rant" or "vent" will be accepted and forgiven if necessary.

Because we're all human. We're all women.

And we're not perfect.

But we're honest.

And that's what matters.

***

Happy Thursday everybody!

A wedding full of yarn and stitches

I love weddings more than I love cake.

Seriously, a good wedding renders me so completely joyful that by the end of it, I don't even remember that there is, traditionally, cake.

This may be why weddings seem to be the only occasions where I skip dessert.

I didn't even eat the cake at my own wedding.

And like then, this past week's wedding proved no different.

Who had time for cake when there were crocheted thongs and flowers to deal with?

Yes, you read that right.

My dear friends Autumn and Adam had a wedding that included crocheted flowers and thongs.

Let me take you back a week ago...

***

We had five days to go until the Big Day.

And the bride's sister-in-law, Chelsea, and I were propped on my couch at 1 a.m. talking about the wedding up ahead.

All while Chelsea crocheted a neon pink thong.

You see, the very next day, we were throwing a lingerie shower for the bride, otherwise known as Autumn's (Slightly Inappropriate) Panty Party.

And so Chelsea, who once knit a doughnut so life-like that her own husband tried to dunk it in his coffee and eat it for breakfast, put her skills to the test and knit a little, ruffly, woolen thong and bikini top for the bride.

You know, for those cold winter months when you still want to be sexy.

It was hysterical.

So the next day, after Autumn opened her honeymoon gifts, she was brave enough to don the sexy thermals over her clothes for a whole gaggle of women to giggle over. (Seriously, I almost peed my pants, I was laughing so hard.)

And then, because we're just wacky like that, we prayed over Autumn, and we all cried. Because it's never a party unless there's laughter over underwear, a good blessing and some tears.

It was wonderful.

The next day, though, there was no more time for fun and games (and thongs.)

We drove out to the wedding destination - the bride's parents' home - and began a day-long task of a different sort.

Chelsea, who legitimately does crochet objects that are tasteful for all ages, had spent the last five months knitting 200+ flowers to use at the reception as decorations.

We were creating arrangements with these pieces of art, and we were stuffing them into pumpkins for table centerpieces. Which we also had decided to inscribe with hearts.

Which would have been all well and good, after we did six or so of them. But when we hit Pumpkin #13, which happened to be petrified, making it hard as a piece of marble, we began to doubt our own sanity.

We also began to doubt we'd ever be clean again, as pumpkin juice, when dried on one's hands and various extremities, makes a paste tackier than anything else I've ever seen. Seriously, we appeared to have impenetrable film all over hands and arms, plus our inner thighs, where we'd taken to wedging the pumpkins while we sliced into them.
But, 22 pumpkin centerpieces and seven hours later, we finished. And then did several happy dances, waving around the leftover pumpkin pieces and stepping on a corncob holder, which, FYI, doubles as an excellent scoring tool for those of you considering a career in pumpkin art. It also hurts like the dickens when shoved through one's foot.

I'm just saying.

Anyways, as soon as stopped dancing, time picked up speed, which was really ironic considering Daylight Savings Time had us all fall back an hour amid all this, actually giving us more time, mathematically speaking. (Except I hate math, so I'm kind of in denial that it actually happened, and I still maintain: Time flew.)

We had a bridesmaid luncheon, where I cried. We had a Friday night dance party. Where I cried. We had a rehearsal and a rehearsal dinner. Where - you guessed it - I cried.

Until, finally, the wedding day - Nov. 1 - was upon us. The bride bounded out of bed at 7 a.m., sleepless from the night before. (I know, because I was sleeping next to her. And when you bump into one of your best friend's behinds in the middle of the night, you know her well enough to know whether she and her butt are sleeping or not. And her bottom wasn't lying: She hadn't slept at all.)

So we were up, placing flowers here, putting plants there, creating a generally warm, crafty, homey wedding that literally took our breathe away by the end of the day.

Then we also had the almost-impossible task of getting eight bridesmaids, six groomsmen and five flower children ready in under two hours.

And I was up first in the hairdresser's chair.

Because I'm (gasp!) not a "hair girl" in the slightest, I told her I liked big, slightly mussy hair, and I preferred to accentuate my natural curl rather than straighten it.

Frankly, I was just trying to pick something cheap and easy. Little did I know...

All the ladies below the Mason-Dixon line will understand me when I say that it was as if my hippie head of hair finally embraced the fact that it was born and raised in the South.

I. Had. Big. Hair.

And I kind of liked it.
Seriously, look at the height on that thing (and note that this was six hours later. It had fallen. Significantly. Let's just say that right after it was done, my husband didn't even recognize me.)

I felt as if I needed a mint julep and a hand fan.

But wait. Enough about me. I wasn't the bride...

So, after my big hair was installed and all the other girls donned their 'dos, we added touches of make-up and a little spit shine.

And the wedding party was ready to go. On time. (Which was its own little miracle, considering the propensity of several members of the wedding party to ignore time cues. Including the bride. Thank heavens, though, things went smoothly. There was no bride left behind.)

So we took pictures, gushed over our big hair, adored the loveliest bride I have ever seen, and waited for our cues.

While waiting, Autumn and I did the whole bride-bridesmaid, dress-holding pee routine minutes before the wedding was about to start, and no joke, I started crying. (I know what you're thinking. But who says I can't have a moment in the bathroom?)

Then, it was time.


We walked down the aisle (I got to walk down with my very own hubs:), watched Autumn and Adam exchange vows, and then had a group prayer, at which point I couldn't pray aloud because I was crying so badly. (The bride actually had to hold my hand amidst it all. I was sobbing that badly. I'm beginning to think I have a problem. Later, one of the groomsmen asked, "Who was it in there that kept gasping for air?" Everyone answered in unison, "Brittany.")

Then there was dinner and dancing and the cake (which I didn't eat) and toasts, which I did partake in, but only long enough to stand up and say "I've never successfully given one of these without crying..." before breaking down in tears. I managed to pull it together, but I had to turn away from the bride and groom to do so, which was awkward, because I appeared to be toasting the whole crowd, not my friends. Still, my voice only cracked 14 times, and I managed to keep the open sobbing to a minimum.

I'm counting it as a success.

Then, we danced some more, mostly the girls and I, as my husband and his compatriots were far too into decorating Autumn and Adam's car with phrases like "Honk to make them kiss" than dancing with their wives.

There was more eating and socializing and cuing from the photographer, who ordered us around with phrases like "Go dance around the bride for a picture," until finally, people started to fizzle out.

And then, we packed up Autumn's bags, threw everything, plus a couple of balloons and a pumpkin cheesecake, in the back of their car, and made our cheering exit tunnel of bodies and handfuls of rice/birdseed. (At this point, I was trying to find the bride's glasses, and I'm not entirely sure what they threw at them.)

And then they left.

And I cried.

Then we packed up our bags, and we left.

And I cried.

And then I said goodnight to my best friend, Blair, who was in the wedding with me but was flying back to New York the next day.

And I cried.

I cried because I was so happy my dear friends got their dream wedding. I cried because I was so honored that Patrick and I could be a part of it.

And I cried because I was so gosh-darn tired from all the crying that I stupidly forgot to see if I could get an additional day away from work because I had no idea how/what I'd teach my teenagers the next day. (Admittedly, my original mistake was thinking I could be in a Sunday night wedding and then turn around and go back to teaching school Monday morning. Not so bright, Britt. Not so bright.)

As Autumn said the day before she got married, "It's totally not fair. I get to go on vacation after this is all over. You all have to go back to work."

Oh, how true.

So I took off my big skirt and took down my big hair and went back to work on Monday. I put weddings out of my mind for a while, and I dried my eyes, no longer needing to cry tears of wedding joy. At least for a little while.

Until yesterday, when I began humming a song we'd heard a lot throughout the previous week.

It was the song Autumn walked down the aisle to, a song one of her dear friends sang to us all in his beautiful voice.

And there, in my non-wedding state and non-emotional school setting, I started crying again.

So, I leave you with the lyrics that may always bring back tears of joy when I remember Autumn and Adam's wedding day.

Because I am just so happy we all lived it.

Build us a house Oh God, it's rooms are filled with praise,
Build us a family Father, sons and daughters of light,
Build us a house Oh God, it's walls will echo your peace,
Build us a family Father, children to run and play,
We sing as people God set free,
You dream the very best, You dream,
And then we know, we know,
A home is what we make in You,
You love Your children, yes You do,
We are Your house, Your home,
Build us a house Oh God, keep it sunny by day,
Build us a family Father, our sons will love Your name,
Build us a house Oh God, keep us safe at night,
Build us a family Father, our daughters Your word will keep,
Build us a family Father, children to run and play,
We sing as people God set free,
You dream the very best, You dream,
And then we know, we know,
A home is what we make in You,
You love Your children, yes You do,
We are Your house, Your home
Congratulations Autumn and Adam!

***

Thanks for reading everyone! And thanks to Christine and Renee, who supplied me with photos for this post! (And pardon my crappy Blackberry photos of Chelsea's flowers. They don't do them justice. And soon, I will post some better ones. And maybe throw a giveaway for some of them. Because seriously, people were sneaking these flowers in their pockets at the reception. They are that beautiful. I have to share them!)

We'll return to our regularly scheduled ramblings around here tomorrow!

Until then, Happy Wednesday everyone!

Taking off the taffeta skirt and getting back to blogging

I'm taking off my bridesmaids' skirt.

I'm wiping away my tears of joy.

I'm washing my hands, chafed and scratched from carving 22 pumpkins.

And I'm putting down my calla lily bouquet, wiping off my "big girl" make-up, and taking down the biggest hair I've ever worn in my entire life.

Because, believe it or not, it's all over.

I am so happy to announce that my dear friends Autumn and Adam are husband and wife.

And I'm also happy to announce that after prepping, stressing, crying and rejoicing, we've all survived!

We've all lived to tell the tale of a beautiful, fall-themed wedding that honored a monumental love story.

I feel so blessed to have been a part of it.

I also feel dead tired because I was a part of it.

Dead-to-the-world, knock-me-over-with-a-stiff-breeze tired.

Because while I've loved every moment of celebrating with friends and family, I didn't sleep much. I didn't eat much. I didn't clean or launder much.

I'm not entirely sure I showered much.

And I definitely didn't blog much.

So now, I've got some catching up to do.

I'm putting the sweatpants back on, pouring myself a cup of tea, and grabbing my laptop.

I'm back.

I'm reading and writing and catching up with all of you.

The normal everyday happenings have never felt so good.

Today I'm hoping to tackle the rarely tamed, never-broken beast known as My Overly Ambitious Google Reader.

And tomorrow I promise to post a fun recap so you can hear all the hilarious and fabulous stories about my dear friends' wedding.

Then, I should be all caught up and back into the swing of things.

Thanks for hanging in there with me in my absence, and thank you so much, Melissa, for re-posting some archival Living in the Moment moments!

Thank you to my husband, who cleaned the house, did laundry, brought me lunch at school, and made dinner, all while I worked 15-hour day at the school yesterday after we came home from Wedding Week the night before to grab only four hours of sleep before arising to a perfect storm of a week's worth of neglected student issues. (I know. I'm a lucky woman. I'd rent him out, if I wasn't so darn fond of him.)

A special thanks goes out to my littlest brother, who was born 19 years ago yesterday. I love you, kid! Thanks for being born! I wore my Air Force Academy shirt on your birthday in your honor! Just don't tell those Army/Navy family members we all know and love!

And thank you all of you lovely readers for stopping by once again. I missed you all, and I'm so glad to be back! I will return tomorrow with more wedding fun, but until then, I leave you with one beautiful moment I can't resist sharing. A little teaser, if you will...Happy Tuesday everyone!

Show Teach some love

(Originally posted on May 5th, 2009)

I was strolling down the school hallway yesterday.

I was making good time, keeping up a brisk pace, and was several yards away from my classroom door, when I saw it.

Now, at this point, I wasn't sure what "it" was.

It appeared, from that distance, to be a wadded up piece of tissue paper, resting precariously on my classroom doorknob.

I stopped dead in my tracks, and, I am sad to say, I was immediately suspicious.

I considered my options.

1. Some lazy student blew his/her nose and possessed a sick sense of humor, so he/she decide to leave the tissue on my doorknob instead of finding a trash can, effectively grossing me out and making it look as if he/she may or may not be trying to infect our school with swine flu.

2. Some mean student was sick and tired of all the tests and homework and reading I'd assigned (How dare I! Who do I think I am? A teacher or something?) and had left me a death threat, which they knew I would find on the doorknob, as I had to enter this door before returning to my desk and stacks of grading (See? All those tests and homework and reading are a pain for us teachers, too.)

3. Some clever student had fashioned a booby trap of sorts so that when I grabbed the tissue (a.k.a., the decoy) off the door knob, I'd be knocked out by a canoe paddle that would come swinging down from the school rafters. The revolutionaries, er, I mean, the kids, would then revel in their victory and carry me, hog-tied, towards the football field, yelling, "Off with her head!"

So, I began to approach with trepidation, looking around all sides of me, just in case there were innocent bystanders that might get hurt if I removed the tissue and accidentally detonated a bomb.

I kept approaching the door. It took me till I was almost right on it to realize what was really there, tied to the doorknob with little black pipe cleaners.



Flowers! Beautiful, perfectly crafted, tissue-paper flowers!

I was shocked! I was awed! I was flummoxed! (I was incredibly foolish and cynical, but let's not go there now.)

Someone had tied handmade flowers to my classroom doorknob.

I looked around to see if I could find the culprit, er, I mean, sweet soul.

No one was in sight. Not a student, not a parent, not an administrator.

I was so touched, I teared up.

Eventually, I shook off my surprise and went inside to prepare my classroom for the day.

The bell rang; the day started. The kids got to work on my planned "Work Day," i.e., the lesson plan you use when over half your kids are gone participating in track meets, in-school musical rehearsals, senior graduation photos, AP testing, and fake illnesses that come from children knowing no one else will be in school that day anyways.

As they were using class time to finish up a digital media project I've got my students working on, I see one of my more "interesting" students creep up behind me while I'm working with another girl. (I say "interesting" because she's one of those children who has an opinion on everything but is quite often lacking the necessary social skills to communicate it effectively.)

She's holding her back-pack in front of her and asked to be excused to the bathroom.

I'm immediately skeptical (I know, you'd think I'd have learnt my lesson earlier), as these trips to the bathroom are often code for much more inappropriate behavior than using the facilities.

I give her "The Look," and she caves, stammering away that she's "really sorry but I finished my work and I just want to do something nice but I like no one to know about it so can I please just go?"

I keep "The Look" fixed on her and deliver the always-effective line: "You and I both know you can't go leave the classroom without a viable pass and good reason."

She sighs, knowing she's lost the battle of wills and might as well give up the ghost.

So finally, slowly but surely, she opens her backpack and shows me...

A huge pile of the tissue-paper flowers, filling the bag to the brim. No books. No paper. No pens. Just beautiful flowers.

"I was up all night making them, Mrs. Casey, for Teacher Appreciation Week. I just wanted to do something nice for y'all, you know, just tie 'em on your doors and stuff, because I think y'all need it right now."

Seriously, people, I had fight back the urge not to start blubbering right there.

She couldn't have been anymore geniune and sweet. I was so touched.

And so surprised because I had completely forgotten that it was Teacher Appreciation Week. (I'm not sure I'd ever really known, but I feel like I heard/read a blog about it.)

It was a good way to start the last month of school.

So, to all you teachers out there, Happy Teacher Appreciation Week!

Don't forget that you all are so valued and appreciated, even if you don't always see it.

Some kids are just hiding it in their backpacks.

A lesson from a woman wiser than me

(Originally posted on May 23rd, 2009)

First off, let me thank all of you for your comfort and sweet words on my post yesterday. I am constantly amazed and blessed by all of you out there in my life, real or in the blogging world.

It's taken me until about now to recover my good spirits, and for that, I'm a bit ashamed.

I was originally going to delete yesterday's post, but I've decided not to. I still believe what I wrote, and I still stand for good morals, good values and manners.

However, I paged back through my quote journal (I'm totally the girl who keeps track of her favorite quotes in a book. Are you terribly surprised?) I found one of my favorites, a quote from Mother Teresa. It really helped me change my attitude and turn my frown upside down, so to speak.

Mother Teresa's good like that.

So here it is, in case anyone needs a pick-me-up. I'm now off to enjoy the beautiful, albeit rainy, Memorial Day weekend! I hope you all have a lovely one as well!

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.
Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.
Be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies.
Succeed anyway.
If you are honest and sincere, people may deceive you.
Be honest and sincere anyway.
What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight.
Create anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous.
Be happy anyway.
The good you do today, will often be forgotten.
Do good anyway.
Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.
Give your best anyway.
In the final analysis, it is between you and God.
It was never between you and them anyway. - Mother Theresa

A note-worthy obsession

(Originally posted on April 28th, 2009)

I feel as if I have to confess something. I normally try to keep this kind of thing under wraps, but I can no longer deny that I have a pretty odd habit.

A habit that I can now safely say has manifested itself into a weird, obsessive-compulsive addiction that I am in no way considering giving up anytime soon.

I love index cards.

No, seriously. I LOVE index cards.

I probably use, on average, about 35 a week. I buy them IN BULK at Sam's Club, simply because I use so many that buying en masse is not only enjoyable (for me) but also economical.

And no, I don't write down recipes on them (although I should); I don't make flashcards on them (thank goodness those years are behind me); I don't even write and practice speeches and lessons on them (because that would be entirely too normal.)

What do I do? I keep daily lists and to-dos on them.

For every day of my life, for the last two years, I have written daily to-do lists on index cards.

Now, I know that doesn't sound terribly odd, but if you knew how it normally works, it might freak you out. And as I'm not one to miss out on a chance to scare any of you, take a peek:

1. On Sunday evening, I prepare seven notecards, one for each day of the following week.

2. On each daily notecard, I write down exactly what I want/must/hope to do that day, whether it be grade papers or mop the floor. There are no limits to what I can put on each notecard. (Remember how I mentioned all the little notebooks I tote around? Yeah, well, those are my index-card reference materials.)

3. Then, I create addendum note cards, meaning: If Tuesday's notecard specifies that I must go grocery shopping, I create an addendum notecard that details my shopping list. Or if Thursday's notecard indicates that I have to pack for a weekend trip, Thursday's addendum notecard has my packing list. (Now, it has to be said. These notecards are not carved in stone. Throughout the week, I often jot down new to-dos - especially if I don't finish something from the previous day's notecard - or add new addendums as need arises.)

4. Then (and this is the really sick part), each morning, before I start work, I take the day's index card and re-write the list on a sticky note, in the order I want to do each item. (The sticky, Post-it-like nature of these allows me to shellack them to my desk or laptop, so I always have a handy reference tool.)

Edited to add: I want to make a note that this little Vera Bradley book of sticky notes took my obsession to a whole new level. I mean, this was like my dream come true.

5. (And this is where the real OCD kicks in) I systematically, after I complete each task on the Post-It, take obscene amounts of pleasure in crossing it off the sticky little list.

Ahhhhh. It's an amazing feeling. Seriously. Crossing items off each list is one of my favorite feelings in the whole world. I enjoy it so much that I'm fairly certain I have an unhealthy obession with it. I mean, I've actually started to panic the few times I couldn't find my list (again, hence the extreme beauty of a sticky note.)

Now, I realize what you're thinking. This woman must be anal retentive. She must have very specific dos and don'ts, and she must have very strict, rigid, stern rules.

And that, my friends, is the weird part about all of this.

I don't. I'm really, really not your type-A, OCD personality. I'm not a neat freak. I have an always-cluttered desk at school. I haven't seen the bottom of my purse or gym bag in months.

In fact, I'm fairly horrible at throwing the notecards and sticky notes away once I've completed them, meaning all that desk and purse clutter? Yeah. It's old, discarded, scratched-off notecards. (I also have this weird fear that someone is going to find these notecards in the trash and be able to trace back over my every move for the last year. I'm the CIA's dream...other than the fact that I haven't committed any crimes of national security, at least that I know of.)

I feel kind of socially irresponsible admitting this, with Earth Day so recently behind us. I mean, I do realize how many trees I kill with this obsession. And I do want you all to know that I've tried creating electronic lists. It didn't work. I didn't get the satisfaction of the illicit Scratching Off of the To-Do List (This, by the way, is the same reason I can't get behind the Kindle. I like to feel a book in my hand, get the satisfaction of turning a page, and note my progress through a good read. An electronic book? It's just not the same!)

So, are you judging me? A little? I don't blame you if you are. It's weird, I know.

But at least now...

I can now scratch "Blog" off today's sticky note.