Regift Boomerang

For those who know me well, you might know that I am an avid regifter. It's shameful, I know. Not one of my best attributes at all. But, if I am given something and I don't like it, I am not the type of girl to hold onto it and wear/hang/put it out in obligatory fashion when the giver comes over. I usually stash it in a drawer and then give it to someone else. Sometimes as a present, but more often as a simple offering because I like them and I think they would like my unwanted gift. Maybe they do....Or maybe they regift it to someone else. I don't know.

I do have a shred of sentimentality in me. If the gift truly means something or is symbolic in some way and I don't like it, I still hold onto it. I'm talking more about the regifting of common everyday gifts here, so let me make the disclaimer that I'm not completely heartless.

But, for example, I have received a proliferation of items that depict my first tattoo--Picasso's hands holding flowers drawing--throughout my life. I got this tattoo when I was 18 years old, and while I don't loathe it now, it no longer feels like me. However, the stuff keeps pouring in: erasers, pencils, coffee mugs, notepads, posters, stationary. Most of it is from my mom (bless her heart), but sometimes it'll come from someone else. I smile when I receive it and stash it in a drawer to regift it.

This past weekend we attended Adam's Aunt's funeral. Aunt Marilyn was the best recipient of my regifts. She accepted all gifts with pure joy and thankfulness--an earnest joy and thankfulness. She was a very simple woman who appreciated simple things; she was also single her whole life, and I feel that when gifts came to her she truly felt part of a family and loved. I cannot begin to explain the large number of gifts that were given to me by my family that were recycled to Aunt Marilyn, and she loved each and every one. In fact, at the luncheon after the funeral and burial, Grandma Watson (Marilyn's mother) explained to me how much Marilyn loved a throw blanket that Adam and I had given her years ago for Christmas. Well, that was actually a gift my mom and stepdad had given us, but in a small apartment that already had three throw blankets, we didn't need another and regifted it to Aunt Marilyn. Grandma said how once Marilyn was wheelchair bound, that throw blanket was on her lap 24/7.

Aunt Marilyn had been in an assisted living facility for the past eight years. There wasn't much to clean out of her room, but Adam's mom, Marcia, came up to me on Saturday and handed me a mug of Picasso's hands holding flowers and said, "This was in Marilyn's room and we thought you should have it." Marcia didn't know that I had given the mug to Marilyn (or if she did, she didn't say), and she definitely didn't know that the mug came from my mother about nine years ago at Christmas. But now the mug is back in my hands, and, since it is a relic of Aunt Marilyn and symbolizes the hilarity of my regifting boomeranging back in my face, the mug is now safely situated in our cabinet where it will stay.

I guess when I regift comes back at you, it's the universe's way of saying you're meant to keep it.

Rest in Peace, Aunt Marilyn. I'll drink my coffee and tea from my mug, which was your mug, which is now again my mug and think of you.

Parent Teacher Night

My body may have been deep in my crappy Ikea couch tonight, but my mind was at my the high school where I taught the last ten years where my past colleagues stayed at work until 9pm to host parent teacher night.

My first parent teacher night in Bushwick was when I realized how important this night was to figuring out my students as people. Seeing who my students went home to at night peeled back layers and layers of who they were and they made so much more sense. I feel very strongly that so much of us comes from our parents--the good and the bad--and that once you meet someone's parents you truly begin to understand their quirks and neuroses. When you observe how the parents dress and how they carry themselves, once you hear how they speak, once you watch how they beat or berate their kid in front of you for the bad grades, once can realize that their kid has them more duped than he had you, once you see a single mom cry after she reads her son's college essay about her....Wow. So much is said by both words and body language on parent teacher night.

I miss that window into my students' worlds.

Because now I teach adults. They may mostly be one year older than my prior students as freshmen in community college, but they are no longer wards of the NYC Department of Education and they are paying for their education. After the first day of class, I stood in my empty room after my students left and made mental notes of which parents to call when I realized, "I don't have anyone's phone number!" Several times I have wanted to call when a student was absent, or if s/he did something amazing, but I can't.

It's so strange!

But I also realize how--developmentally--it's important. It's time for personal responsibility to kick the f*ck in finally. Now my students have nobody to fail but themselves in this attempt to secure their human capital through education and a degree, and it's high time they know that. Nobody's checking on you, so check yourself (before you wreck yourself, as Ice Cube would say).

And, as a control freak, it's time for me to let go, too. Grow up, my students. And welcome to the harsh, and often rewarding, world of adulthood.

Occupy Wall Street

I have yet to go down to Occupy Wall Street. I guess I have been trying to solidify why I would go before going; I want to make sure I understand my own stance in relation to others and I want to be able to articulate that stance intelligently before placing myself in the public sphere. Maybe it's too calculated for most, but in my pragmatic mind that's just how things work.

But as I have negotiated my personal angle on this, a few photos on facebook--posted by friends and family--have pushed me solidly into believing that I *do* agree with the protests and, to use the Occupy Wall Street creed, I *am* part of the 99%. These photos are above.

What really strikes me about these personal diatribes that folks feel the need to post is the immense lack of critical thinking skills in their words. Yes, I understand that you busted your ass in college and worked four jobs to pay for it because SO DID I. Yes, I understand that you live below your means because SO DO I. Oh, but your solution to massive unemployment and a tanking economy is for all the unemployed in the country to work at McDonald's or pick crops in Alabama? You think it's that simple? And, obvious in your statements, you assume others haven't worked their asses off to get where they are, even if where they are currently is laid off, or under a pile of debt, or homeless? You think that some folks have a fall from the middle class grace they were trying to climb into?

Dig deeper my friends.

I will occupy Wall Street because I know that I have lived a privileged life. I came from two middle class parents who worked their way up into the middle upper class. My dad was college educated and employed my whole life; my mom had an at home daycare b/c she did not have the same education. We always owned our modest houses in safe communities. I have never been without clothing, food, shelter, two parents, and a good to great school. I am White. I have many class privileges and race privilege in an incredibly classist and racist society. I realize that there are structures in place in society that make it harder for others who have not had my sort of life to succeed. Amid a recession, those structures are even more discriminatory. Although I am not suffering currently (knock on wood), I realize many people are.

I have seen and worked within classist and racist structures as an educator. I would NEVER send my own children to the high school where I taught for ten years--a school full of poor Black and Hispanic kids that struggled with test scores, attendance, and school violence--but I worked HARD to try to catch my students up (academically and socially) so they could function in the mainstream--White, middle class--world and break the cycle of poverty they were born into. A few kids are able to break it, but most are not.

You think if you were in the situations that plague the bottom of the 99%, you'd be able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps? You think living in a homeless shelter your freshman and sophomore year, coming to school in dirty clothes b/c your clean ones were stolen while you slept, being hungry all the time b/c you can't eat breakfast at the shelter b/c you leave for school before it's served and travel one hour by subway only to get to high school after the free school breakfast is served wouldn't derail your upward mobility? Add a variety of factors to that, like uneducated parents, incarcerated parents, dead parents, fear of being shot at in your neighborhood after dark, not having a washing machine to wash your clothes, not having a winter coat, not going to the doctor, not attending any sort of pre-school...I mean the list is endless when it comes to the obstacles faced by the truly poor in our country. You think you could overcome such obstacles? Maybe you could. Most likely you couldn't.

It doesn't sound like either of these folks with these signs faced those obstacles.

It doesn't seem like they are able to see beyond their own experience.

I will always remember the shame I felt--as an American--the first time I traveled to Bushwick, Brooklyn, for my first teaching job in 2000. Bushwick, at the time, was the neighborhood you were "most likely to be shot at random" according the The New York Times. I rode the B39 bus from downtown Brooklyn through Fort Greene, Clinton Hill, Bed-Stuy, and into Bushwick. When I got off, I was shocked. There was trash all over the streets, prostitutes still lingering at 7:30am, crack vials and needles and dog shit all over the ground, boarded up houses with sketchy folks standing in their doorways, empty lots with burnt out cars, mattresses, trash piles heaped up taller than me. I had arrived in Third World America. Most folks like me (read White and middle upper class) will never see that. Everyone should.

I will go to Occupy Wall Street for the bottom of the 99%. I have been lucky in this life. Although statistically speaking I am part of the 99%, I will go because there are others whose lives are so complicated by poverty and race and the solution is not for them to get a job at McDonalds or to become a migrant worker. If only it were that simple. And those folks are most likely not at Wall Street because they're working three jobs, or struggling to find decent daycare, or waiting in an emergency room because they had a miscarriage and don't have a doctor...The options are endless. But if you see me at Wall Street, it will be because I am there for them. I want there to be more options in our country than McDonald's and migrant farming for many of my students.

The inability of many Americans to see this and to care about anyone besides themselves is, and will continue to be, the cancer of our society.

Reading

Did any of you ever watch "The Great Space Coaster" on morning TV before school when you were young? And by "you," I mean the 37 year old crowd out there that might match my age demographic. Anyhoo, on this show was this guy called Speed Reader. He could run around in super short runner's shorts, tube socks, and sneakers (and maybe a tank top?) and he would read, read, read. I specifically remember he did a handstand on a stack of newspapers at and would read the headlines in the one second when he was upside down. I thought he was awesome, and a mobile version of my physically handicapped dad.

My dad was a prolific reader. We went to the library weekly, he would check out literally 8-12 books, and read them all in that week. It blew my mind, even as a kid. Now, as a professor of reading/writing it really blows my mind. How did he read that fast? I mean, really, how?

But I have been channeling my dad lately since I have acquired this new commute. Twice a week I schlep out to Kingsborough Community College to teach my Freshman Composition course. Three days a week I commute to Bryant Park in the city. The past ten years I have worked two subway stops from my house which does not even warrant pulling out a book. While I should use my commute to grade, I have decided to allow myself that time to read. And it is glorious.

Since September, I have read seven books:
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
The Unthinkable
Girl in Translation
There's no Jose Here
The Kid
Blindness
The Help

And I am back in love with reading. Not that I have ever been out of love with reading, but it's hard to carve time out of your day to read amid the grind of job, kids, grading, socializing, laundry, etc. But I feel a new sense of connectedness to my books. I have even chosen to read over watching TV some nights--imagine that!

But this has all made me think of my dad more. I wish I could ask him what his reading strategies were (he had no commute--how did he read so much?), how he became such a big reader, and all the questions I poke and prod my students with in order to better understand others' reading approaches. Instead I guess I'll just have to model his speed reading behavior to my kids so that one day, when they look back for memories of me, these memories will be of me with a book on my nightstand, in my backpack/purse, in my hand and want to do the same.

Happy Birthday to Nico?

Today is Nico's birthday. I am not sure why, maybe because two seems so much more grown up than one, but I have been very excited. I stayed up last night and wrapped his presents, hung our Happy Birthday sign, and told the story of when Nico was born to Alexandra and Nico when I put them to bed. After the kids and Adam left this morning, I laid out all his presents on the kitchen table. Adam and I met at 4pm at his office, got tiny cupcakes (the same cupcakes that my friend Nicole Macrini brought to the hospital when I had the boy), and went to get Alexandra together so that we could pick Nico up as a family and have an amazing night together.

The night would include: happy family dinner, sweet walk home, presents that would include Nico squealing for glee with each gift and Alexandra not getting jealous, cupcakes and ice cream, fast baths, painless bedtimes, and great photos to document all the super cute moments from that linear trajectory of the evening illustrating what a great little family we have.

But his is what happened instead:

Alexandra started whining that she was too tired to scoot to the Chinese restaurant after picking Nico up, so Adam put her on his shoulders. Nico saw her on his shoulders and started crying. We tried to distract him to no avail ("Look! A bus! A dog!") and his crying turned into full-blown tantrum that necessitated us stopping on the side of the sidewalk, letting him out of the stroller, offering him daddy, mommy, walking, carrying, stroller, backpack--anything to get him to stfu--but nothing worked. He slumped on the stroller, hysterical, writhed on the ground, and walked around aimlessly while screaming.

Then we got to the Chinese restaurant (it's en route to home) and Adam decides to go in and get take out (Nico is on my shoulders at this point somewhat consoled but intermitedly crying, Alexandra is back on scooter, Adam is pushing stroller). Alexandra realizes that we are not going into the restaurant b/c Nico is crazy, and she throws a full-blown-I-should-be-locked-in-an-asylum-tantrum. I only saw the beginnings because I left them to start walking home, but I heard them coming from about a block away as I got home b/c her screaming was so loud.

So we get kids in house, where they literally tantrum for the next 30-45 minutes, including slamming my hand in a door, throwing food, knocking heads on ground, and other insane tantrum behaviors. I start drinking beer. Things. are. not. good.

Nico finally stops. Alexandra stops about 20 minutes later. They eat hot dogs, bunny crackers, and corn for dinner. Bath (Nico throws tantrum #2 then falls asleep on changing table). Bed.

Holy crap.

No presents, Adam and I eat Chinese food after they're in bed, I have another beer, and now we'll eat cupcakes without kids. Totally sucky night. And for some reason, I'm just sad that Nico didn't get to have presents and cake on his birthday, although he doesn't know he missed out.

God, parenting is exhausting.

Survivor's Guilt

Like many of you around the country, I have been listening to a great amount of news coverage this week on the 10 year anniversary of 9/11. Having been here in New York City on 9/11, these conversations have given me a sort of personal pause; I have been reflecting on what the last 10 years have meant to me. The ten year anniversary of 9/11 also coincides with my teaching career: ten of my eleven years in the classroom were at Cobble Hill, a school that became my second home. It was on my second day of teaching my classes that the planes hit, and all my memories of that day are tied to my old school.

Teaching in a struggling inner city school is the work of civil servitude in the truest sense of the word. No, teachers don't run into burning buildings like firemen, but they do challenging and seemingly impossible work on a daily basis that fosters a sense of "brotherhood" (to steal from the firemen) between them. The united struggle of working in such a school becomes a twisted badge of pride--a deserved one.

In the last ten years, a handfull of us stayed at our school through the administrative upheavals and many new people joined the faculty that continued to be the fabric that held the school together. These teachers have watched me grow as a person and as a teacher. They have celebrated my marriage with me, the birth of my two children, and the completion of my never-ending doctoral work. They let me cry when I lost our first pregnancy and had to continue to teach a class of eight pregnant seniors, when my close friend died, and when the frustrations of the job became too much. We were a very close staff, and one of the things I am most proud of as an educator were the respectful, loving, friendly, and caring relationships we modeled for our students. We supported each other in an unsupportive environment.

The teaching profession employs a lot of war metaphors. Those of us in hard schools consider it "the trenches" compared to the selective fancy schools. When I emailed my colleagues that I was leaving Cobble Hill several wrote back saying, "You did your time." Therefore I guess this feeling of survivor's guilt that I am having right now fits right in.

Although I will be working with the same student population (just one year later in their educational trajectory), there is a part of me that feels I deserted my people when I left my school; I deserted the profession that I had so zealously advocated for throughout the years. I feel like public education of the poor right now is a sinking ship, and somehow I jumped and survived. And I feel guilty.

I know they will all be fine without me, that they will keep working and crying and laughing and drinking and teaching and thinking and making the best of the broken system they are a part of. I know it was definitely my time to go. What I don't know is when I will stop feeling like somehow I escaped and left them behind.

Struggle

I taught my first college class today. Freshman Composition at Kingsborough Community College, a charming little campus facing the water at the end of Brooklyn. I have had a lot of anxiety about my new job and the switch to teaching college even though I know I am very qualified and capable of doing so. Transitions simply do not come easy for me, and I have been trying to process why I have felt slightly weepy all week. Today I figured it out.

Today went like this:

In the hour before class I ran into FIVE students from Cobble Hill (the high school where I had taught for the last 10 years). That was reassuring--like I was still home in some way--and made me feel grounded. Good start.

Then I went to my classroom to set up. The smartboard worked. The kids came (mostly) on time. They were sweet, engaged, and responded to my sense of humor. I could not believe how diverse they were; it was a Noah's Ark slice of New York City: a few Black kids, a few White kids, a few Asian kids, one kid back from Bangladesh, some tan supermodel-looking girl who went to a female military school (what?), a girl in hijab...It was like the United Nations in my classroom. They were all lovely. And intriguing. I am so excited to teach them.

I taught for 2 hours. Easily.

Then I got in my car and cried.

Why?

Because it was easy. Because I felt so appreciated, respected, and given the benefit that I knew what I was doing by these students. And I realized that I have been on the verge of tears all week while starting this new job because everyone--students, colleagues, the IT guy--just expect that I am competent. I have received more compliments on my resume, my interviewing process, and my work in the last couple of weeks than I had ever heard in my ten years of teaching. I have been told how certain individuals at the New Community College fought to get me an interview because they knew I was the "perfect" fit for the job although others doubted me due to my lack of college teaching experience. I was given a computer of choice, a bag of office supplies (although I had my own, which all have my name on them written hugely in white-out in case anyone ever tried to steal them from my classroom), and a warm welcome. It has been mind-blowing.

And it's so hard to explain how much these gestures hurt me. I didn't realize how much I had been broken by the lack of appreciation I was constantly fed while teaching in such a hard school for so many years. You simply get used to being treated like shit, even when you are considered one of the "good" teachers by the administration, the Network, and other higher-up individuals. There's such a deficit approach to teachers right now--they are seen as all lacking in myriad ways and that's why kids are failing--but I hadn't realized how much I had internalized it and how much it had really destroyed me as a person. I feel like I have been grieving all week in some strange way.

The struggles that teachers in inner city schools face are impossible to describe to anyone who hasn't walked in their shoes. Every small thing becomes a struggle in that environment, and while the successes feel even greater when they are surrounded by such insurmountable struggle, they day-to-day of the system that created that environment does eat away at you. I am only just realizing that.

Which makes this new job very bittersweet.

*Hopefully* Back

I have missed my blog.

I don't know how and/or why life suddenly got too busy, crazy, chaotic to jot down my thoughts in this space, but between finishing my dissertation, graduating, job hunting, staying at home with two kids all of July & August, taking one job, quitting it to take another job, leaving the Department of Education, joining the faculty of the City University of New York system I have just not had the mental space or energy to put my thoughts down in this space.

But I have had thoughts.

And it sounds almost tragic, but sometimes when I don't get my small and large realizations down in my blog it's like they don't happen. Or, they lose some sense of tangibility, even if I have told them to friends, Adam, and any Joe at the grocery store who will listen over the cachophony of my wailing whining children.

But I am hoping and praying to the universe that all will settle down now. It's September. There's a new normal about to happen here: Alexandra is going to pre-Kindergarten at a new school, Nico is starting a new daycare, and I'm starting a new job as Assistant Professor of Developmental English for the New Community College, a branch of the City University of New York system. Now that all has been thrown up in the air and has resettled, I want to come back to here. I have missed it.

stay-at-home mom

My gawd...Where have two+ months gone?

I will make posts of past life events as the month goes by, but suffice to say I have been crazy busy and haven't had time to think. Most busy-ness is due to my desire to go out and drink post- doctoral work with my bad influence coworkers (you know who you are, and how much i love you), but now that the school year is over and I'm summering (I love using summer as a verb), I'm back to a somewhat constrained routine. Why? Because I'm a mother freakin' stay-at-home mom.

Okay, you gals who do this all the time, let me crown you. You are both insane and goddesses in my book. I mean, I have been at this for one week and I'm about to sell myself on the street corner or barter my too old ovaries or call some illegal organ trade folks in Jersey to sell a kidney to put these animals (my children) back in daycare.

Yes, I am prone to hyberbole.

But the upside of my 11 hours straight a day with my kids is that they do get the best of me. When I see them at 5pm, I am spent. I have struggled with this since I had kids--how do I save any goodness and patience for them at the end of the day, because, sometimes, I literally have none and my love for them just can't cultivate anything from the dried up well of me. But when it's just me and them, they get all of me. The love, patience, frustration, anger, teachable moments, quiet moments of adoration, kisses, sarcasm...blah blah blah.

I am such a bougie yuppie that I have literally NEVER watched both my children before this summer. A day here and there, a weekend when Adam's out of town--yep. But two whole months? Nope. So, wish me luck folks. I need it.

Photographer Magic

My good friend Julia has a part-time business of photographing families, pregnant ladies, and weddings when she's not a full-time photo editor at Backpacker Magazine or mama. I have been watching her take photos of others for years, and I have always been amazed at how beautiful she makes everyone look. What I find amazing about her work is that everyone in her images just looks so lovely--and I don't mean, "Man, those are some attractive people!" (although they are), but it seems that she's able to get their spirits to shine through in the photos and you can see who they truly are. And, of course, since my friend Julia is an amazing person she just attracts more awesome people.

I have been wanting her to photograph us for years, and a couple of weeks ago she came to NYC and my wish came true. Of course, I was nervous. Would I look old, fat, tired, icky? I must admit, my husband--as much as I love him more than anything--takes the absolute WORST photos of me. Don't know what it is, but each time he captures me in a photo I look g-r-o-s-s. I faced Julia's photo shoot with some trepidation. Then I tried the whole get-over-yourself approach and thought that my kids would look adorable, so who cares about me.

Well, I must say, she's got some photographer magic.

I don't even remember the last time I liked photos of myself, and I love these. LOVE. I look at the family in the photos and am like, "Who is that wonderful family? Oh my god, that's us!"

Thanks, Hools. You truly have an amazing talent. Love you.
For her edited view of our session, please go to her blog here.

And, for those of you in NYC, hopefully she'll come back annually and get a base of folks here to shoot. Interested? Lemme know and I'll make a list of us.

(Btw, my kids just plain don't smile for pictures--such surly New Yorkers!)

22

Anyone out there believe in numerology?

The number 22 has been resonating in my life for years now. It started with my dad's death on May 22--that's when the number 22 entered my life. Since then, it keeps seeming to be days of momentous events. Let me make a list:

May 22, 1996: My dad died.
February 22, 1997: My long-term college boyfriend dumped me out of the blue.
June 22, 1998: My first day of solo travel in West Africa.
June 22, 1999: Moved to NYC--drove up in my Toyota to start a new life.
June 22, 2001: Adam & I had our first date.
November 22, 2006: Our first due date of the pregnancy we lost.
September 22, 2009: Nicholas Acer (Nico) our son was born.
April 22, 2010: My freakin' dissertation is officially finished!


Strange, no?

Hopefully, due to the last bit of news, I'll be back to blogging more regularly. Have missed this creative outlet.

Burka Princess

One of the reasons I love New York is for the diversity. Now don't get me wrong--I'm not delusional and/or ignorant. I know I live in a White suburb of New York City by living in Park Slope, but even my White suburb of the City is more diverse than a White suburb of say Washington, DC or Raleigh, NC. I know this because I grew up in those suburbs, and you'd never see the diversity of races and ethnicities there that I see here. I love that my kids are growing up thinking that exposure to all sorts of people is the norm. Honestly, this is a huge reason why we continue to stay here even when a nice little house in Carborro, the college town outside of Chapel Hill, continues to haunt my dreams, pregnant with possibility.

Alexandra is in her princess stage. I guess it was inevitable; everyone told me that no matter how much you try to keep her from the Disney mania that the princess phase sneaks up on you and swallows your daughter whole around this age (she will be four in June). They were right. We have never watched a Disney movie, have NO Disney paraphenalia in our home, nor do we speak of princesses, but she is obsessed with all things pink, wearing dresses 24/7, and wearing a veil (which is more bride than princess, but whatever....). It's pretty sick.

She has a few criteria that define princess-hood. One: you must have a dress that touches the ground (which she has been endlessly begging me to buy her) and Two: you must be wearing some sort of head jewelry or scarf. So, naturally, as we walked home from daycare the other day when she saw a group of Muslim women wearing full burka (albeit, faces showing, but long black dresses/cover ups and black hijabs) strolling past the playground she screamed and pointed:

"Mo0000mmmmmmmmmy! Look at the princesses!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I guess there's still some hope for her afterall.

Baby Ego

When I had Alexandra, folks used to say the rudest things to me. Statements like, "Are you sure that's your baby?" and "She looks NOTHING like you!" and "Maybe they gave you the wrong kid at the hospital!"--all sorts of crummy things that break a mom's heart.

Of course, I'm not blind. I know Alexandra looks nothing like me; she is a carbon copy of Adam, his mom, and her grandmother (strangely, she doesn't look like her namesake, Osa, but like Osa's mom). I comforted myself with saying that she was Adam on the outside but me on the inside, but the older she's gotten the more I have realized that the inside of these little people is nothing but uniquely them. They might have picked up some of our qualities or neuroses along the way, but they are--from birth--simply themselves.

When I had Nico I had hope that he'd look--at least a little bit--like me, and he does. Thank freakin' god. Nico is a blend of Adam and I, but he has my eyes, and the eyes are what folks notice first. Alexandra has Adam's almond eyes; Nico has my round eyes. I get comments all the time on how much he looks like me, and, honestly, they thrill me. They resonate in my core. They make me happy.

And having Nico, having a kid that resembles me, has made me like myself more. Not that I have low self-esteem or anything, but I have never been one to like my looks. Since my teen years I have taken refuge in the fact that I have a solid and likable personality--I'm funny, kind, and have a good soul, but I'd never describe myself as physically attractive. I remember looking at myself in the mirror when I was a little girl and thinking I was pretty, but somewhere in adolescence I lost that feeling. I also remember the guy I lost my virginity to telling me (in a disgustingly cliche line), "I think you're beautiful, not on the outside, but on the inside" and thinking, in my head, "F**k the inside, I know I'm pretty there! Tell me I'm pretty on the outside!" I didn't even realize how "meh" I thought my looks were until I had Nico.

But when I look at Nico, I see myself as a little girl and I remember that feeling of being pretty again. In some twisted way, he has bolstered my feeling of self-worth in terms of my looks. When I look at Nico, and I see myself, I see beauty. My baby has boosted by ego in a way that continuously surprises me. One more perk of motherhood noted.

Freudian Smell

The other day while curriculum mapping some of my co-English teachers and I got on the discussion of smell, who has what kind of smell, if we find those smells attractive, strong, correct for that individual, and so forth. I was told I smell "spicy." I'm okay with that.

But the conversation was somewhat serendipitious in timing as the night before Adam had gone to bed before me. He closed the bedroom doors and when I opened them to go to bed a couple of hours later the room was filled with the smell of my DAD. Adam, when in a contained space, emits a smell that is uncannily like my father's smell. Now my dad has been dead since I was 22 years old, and I don't really know his smell nor could I really describe it in words, but when Adam sleeps in a closed room his body makes my dad's smell.

How Freudian is that?

Teacher Effectiveness

I have been getting irritated to bordering on rage lately with this entire discussion of teacher effectiveness. Let me premise this post by saying that I *do* think that teachers should be held accountable for being effective in their classrooms. I do think less-than-effective teachers should be given professional development, and I do think that some should be counseled out of the profession. But, this has been happening! Not like this is some new idea in the education sector.

By and large, most educators don't go into teaching in order to coast for 25+ years until retirement. The teachers I work with work HARD. And yes, some are more effective in delivering instruction than others, but as mentors/substitute parents/caring adults they are all 100% effective. Unfortunately, we are never be rated on the hours of social work we do as educators.

The vilifying language used to describe the teaching profession is infuriating and the idea that our country's students are failing b/c teachers are ineffective is ridiculous. Our students are falling behind globally for myriad reasons, none of which have to do with the quality of their teachers. The country itself has fallen behind economically, technologically, and scientifically for the past several decades. Anyone remember the "Nation at Risk" report that came out in the early 80's with these same fears? Same shit, decades later.

Coming down hard on teachers is NOT going to solve any of the educational conundrums we are facing at this moment in history. What it will do is drive the best and brightest out of the profession. And it most certainly will drive the strong teachers out of the struggling schools. And yes, I *am* indirectly talking about myself. I have taught in a Title I, academically struggling school of all Black, Hispanic, and Arab kids for 10 years by choice. I could have left many times, but I chose to stay. But, this spring I will be getting my doctorate in education. At this point in my teaching career, I have had myriad leadership positions in my school, including being a Lead English teacher, the school's literacy coach, and currently the school's Master Teacher for English. As much as our school has struggled in other subject, our English scores have been solid. I have options--even in this economy. I could go elsewhere.

But teaching this student population is truly where my heart is. It will break me to either leave my students to go teach at a celebrated high school (like Brooklyn Tech, or Stuy, read: White and Asian kids) or to leave the classroom overall. But I am not sure how long I can handle this pendulum swing that has all fingers pointing at me as the root cause for my students' failure to pass. I am not.

The semester just ended. I had 14 kids fail my 6th/7th period English class that has 34 kids in it. And I don't mean fail by a couple of points, I mean FAIL b/c they had a 17 average. I will be asked for call logs that document the millions of times I called their homes to question their lack of attendance (do you know how many parents asked me to stop calling?), my gradebook will be scrutinized, and my documentation of letters sent home will be checked as will those students' empty work portfolios. Of course, they are all in order b/c I *am* an effective teacher. But I will be questioned nonetheless.

And it didn't use to be like this. One, I never had so many kids outright fail--students are not coming to school for various reasons, and in 2011 I think it has a great deal to do with the economy, the lack of value in a high school diploma, and the easy access to making money illegally. Two, in the past, the administration didn't every question me when I did fail a kid (and I did), but now each kid = a statistic, and each statistic = our school's progress, and our school's progress = Race to the Top funding...

I honestly just don't know how much longer I can be held responsible when 18 year old juniors decide they want to sell weed or work at McDonald's instead of coming to class. You seriously think that an engaging lesson on "The Crucible" will pull them away from immediate monetary gain? Bullshit.

Nobody is discussing the real issues in education: both poverty and entitlement, the economy, the increasing divide between the rich and poor and the disappearing middle class, the lack of jobs, the institutional racism in public schooling....Teachers can't be the scapegoat for all the issues our government refuses to address. If they fire all of us and rehired a new crop of teachers, it wouldn't change a thing.

Classroom Management

I have been teaching ten years, this is my 11th. Classroom management has never been my forte in this profession. I have never had serious problems, but when given a difficult group of kids that I can't immediately win over with my charming wit, my hilarity of performance, and my illuminating content knowledge, combined with my amazing lesson planning & effective instruction of course, I struggle.

Which is why today's anecdote about Alexandra made me laugh.

Adam came home to report that Alexandra's teacher told him this morning that Alexandra now reads the classroom story to the daycare class before naptime. Let me preface this by saying that Alexandra cannot read, but she makes up very descriptive and mostly accurate stories based on the pictures in the book. She creates different characters' voices, and oftentimes the dialogue emulates what she's heard at home or at school (i.e.: and the lion said, "If you don't stay in your chair through all of dinner you will get NO dessert!"). Having caught myself listening to her storytelling instead of doing the dishes, folding laundry, or making dinner, I can attest that she has quite a talent and is captivating. No exaggeration b/c I'm her mama.

BUT, the best part of the story--according to her teachers--is that when one of the teachers at daycare reads the pre-nap story, she always has to tell the kids to sit criss-cross-applesauce (the new politically correct term for indian style) and to stay seated and focus about a dozen times. But when Alexandra reads, the kids sit still and listen. Perfectly. Every. Time.

Man, my 3 1/2 year old already has better classroom management than I do.

the f bomb

I'm blaming this on on the Department of Sanitation. They're an easy scapegoat, as everyone has been all up on them since the lack of plowing during the blizzard of 201o and the complete lack of garbage/recycling pickup still, one month later, due to the snow that won't/can't freakin' melt b/c it's colder than a witch's tit outside. But seriously, I think the conundrum I have gotten myself into right now with Alexandra's new and frequent usage of the f-bomb stems from one night in particular.

I went to get the kids and I took the jogging stroller, since I thought I'd be schlepping through some snow/ice. It was on the day that all us teachers thought for sure would be a snow day--problem was--it wasn't. I got a call from Alexandra's daycare that she was sick so I made a doctor's appt. I got the kids, hung out at the Tribeca Peds office and played with wooden toys while over-protective parents scorned their kids for playing with wooden toys (I personally could give a rip), and headed home.

Well, seemed that the Dept of Sanitation decided to plow while I was out, and in one place on my block they plowed a MOUNTAIN of snow/ice/dirt/dog pee & feces RIGHT UP TO THE STAIRS OF AN APARTMENT BUILDING. This = no sidewalk at all but a mountain of snow/ice/dirt/dog pee & feces to summit with my jog stroller. I could have walked around the block, but it was cold, after 6pm (when I"m usually feeding the kids, not on the street still getting home), and shoot--I'm in shape. I strapped Nico in nice and tight and began the climb.

After my extreme toddler sledding post you have probably been questioning my parenting overall, and, let me tell you, you should.

So, I'm hauling Nico over the mountain of snow/ice/dirt/dog pee & feces and cursing like a sailor. Alexandra has scaled it lightly like all kids do, and was walking up the street. I thought she was out of hearing range, until I heard her start yelling, "You f**ker! F**ker! F**king snow!" Uh-oh. I shut up, almost catapulted Nico out of the job stroller by tossing it over the last leg of snow mountain from hell, and had a conversation with her about not using the word. Didn't hear it again until...

...Wednesday. I was still sleeping b/c of previously mentioned UTI and Adam was getting the kids ready and I was trying to sleep which is impossible in our house from 7-8am during a school day. Adam was trying to get the kids' coats on, and suddenly Alexandra just started saying, "F**ker!" like she had turrets. Poor Adam tried to squash the language, and was somewhat successful.

But then I was walking her home the next day. She was telling me about her day and she said, "Daddy gave Nico the mail, and Nico ate it, and daddy said, 'Nico, you little f**ker!'" (which Adam swears he didn't say and I do believe him, he really doesn't use the f-bomb).

Ahhhhh!

Any tips on subtracting Alexandra's amazing ability to appropriately use the f-bomb?

One liners

Today was a day of pure frustration. TMI here, but I once again have a series of chronic UTIs. When I get a UTI, they seem to come in bouts of 5-6. I got one last week, did 5 days of antibiotics, took my last antibiotic yesterday morning and by last night had the raging symptoms all over again, but worse. For anyone who has had one you know--NOT fun.

So, I spent the morning trying to get in to a dr. My doctor closed. My midwife at a birth and not returning calls. The midwives in the neighborhood closed. Seriously, wtf to all the doctors' offices closed on Wednesday? Walk in clinic stopped taking patients at 11 and I got there at 11:15, so I rushed to work to teach two of my four classes so I wouldn't be marked absent for the day. Ugh.

After I taught my class, a student of mine from the morning class I missed came in and said, "Miss, where were you? I missed you a little bit." This girl is a HARD nut to crack. She's mean, and every time I ask her to do anything she sucks her teeth at me and rolls her eyes and says something nasty under her breath. I tried calling the mom about her sass, but no luck. Her and her mom are BFFs--she has her mom's name tattooed on her wrist and she's 16 years old! So, I have been chipping away at her mean girl facade and today's one liner was evidence that I. have. won. Woot! I told her that her comment made coming to work today worthwhile and she paused. "Really?" she asked. "Yep," I said, "It's not everyday you say something nice." Tender teaching moment.

One liner #2: Go back to walk in clinic at 2:30 and get seen at 4:30. Thank god for a good book from a coworker in my bag. As the doctor and I chatted about my chronic UTIs, he said, and I quote, "In a woman YOUR AGE...." What? A woman MY AGE? Lord, he made me sound like an artifact or something. I don't think I have ever heard that expression before, but I'm sure I'll hear it again.

Oy.

Extreme Toddler Sledding

Over the Christmas Holiday, we visited my dear friend Lisa at her parents house in New Hampshire. Unlike NYC, where there was 24 inches of snow, NH only had about a foot or so, which was the perfect amount for snow play with the three year olds. Her son Finn and my daughter Alexandra played in the backyard until they were near frozen. They sledded, hiked, used the swing, made a snow fort....It was all idyllic until (insert horror movie music here): extreme toddler sledding happened.

Our second day of snow bliss, Lisa and I took Finn and Alexandra out into the backyard alone. Actually, Lisa might have been wearing Zeo, their 12 week old baby in the Ergo carrier. The day before, we had found through extended experimentation the perfect sledding conditions. First, it was quickly noted that when our fat adult assess were in the sleds with the 3 year olds, they didn't go too fast (shocker). Then we found that two wiggly three year olds in one sled usually resulted in one tipping over and derailing the whole ride about 1/3 of the way down the small hill. We decided that each of them sledding separate was best for performance, but when they went downhill sitting up they usually tipped over. Lastly, we concluded that on the tummy was the best way to go. See above picture.

Until they sled head first into a running stream. Which is what Alexandra did.

Also note, the first day of sledding had SIX adults outside, and day two of sledding--during which extreme toddler sledding occurred--had two adults only, one at the top of the small hill & one at the bottom. I was at the bottom.

Both Finn & Alexandra left the top of the hill together & then went in opposite directions. Finn headed right first, towards the patio drop off of about 3 or so feet, then Alexandra veered left, towards the stream. Finn was a bit ahead, so I went to move towards him, envisioning his neck breaking as he launched off the patio ledge, but then I saw Alexandra heading towards the water. I couldn't get to her. I started screaming. It was probably one of the more helpless moments of my life.

She went over the bank of the stream, a rocky 4 foot drop that was covered with snow, slid less than an inch next to a tree, and her sled stopped with its tip dangling over the now running stream that had just unfrozen. I couldn't see her as I raced after her b/c the embankment was well below the yard level. I envisioned her skull split open and bloody, her face mangled, her body limp....but as I reached the lip of the bank I saw her on the sled, dangling over the stream, her hands gripping the sides of the sled tightly and heard her crying. It was a tiny stream, she would have just gotten freezing wet, but I yelled, "Don't move!" and tumbled down the slope to get her. She was crying, and a tad hysterical, but completely unharmed (minus the therapy bills that will probably emerge in 10+ years).

Due to my screaming, Adam and Ross (Lisa's brother) and Uros (Lisa's husband) ran outside and across the yard to the stream where Lisa was pointing, somewhat hysterical, too. I passed Alexandra up to Adam and the sled up to Ross and climbed back up to the yard. I was practically crying but I felt in shock, my heart was racing a million miles per hour, and I felt like the worst parent on earth. Seriously. She could have easily been badly hurt or worse. I was traumatized for at least a week after. I'd look at her and get teary, or just give her a squeeze out of nowhere. I felt like we had escaped some sort of horror.

After she stopped crying, the first words she said were, " I want to tell my teachers!" and she did. In fact, she told anyone who would listen for about a week that she went sledding so so so fast and "my face went over the water." Of course, that makes sense to nobody except those of us who were there.

Extreme toddler sledding--not recommended.

The Death Talk

So, it happened last night. Alexandra and I were walking home from the train, and she asked me, "Mama, who's Luca's daddy?"

For any of you who have been reading my blog for a while, you know that right before Alexandra was born, in May of 2007, our close friend and neighbor Eric died suddenly of a heart attack. He was healthy, a vegetarian, and 34 years old. Two weeks later his wife, also our good friend, Kat, found out she was pregnant. Luca is their miracle son--no exaggeration on the word miracle.

When Alexandra asked me who Luca's daddy was, I didn't know where to begin. I told her that his daddy was our close friend Eric, whom we loved very very much, but he died right before she was born so she never got to meet him. Then she went on to ask some difficult questions, like HOW did he die, HOW does anyone die, WHEN do people die....It was an intense conversation, all within a two block walk until we bumped into our neighbors Jess & JP and the conversation got interrupted and she forgot what we were talking about.

The one thing that she did know, though, was that once someone dies they don't come back. And that, my friends, she learned from Sesame Street. We have the 40 Years of Sunny Days DVD and they have the skit where Big Bird is told that Mr. Hooper's dead and won't be coming back. The first ten times I watched this with her I started tearing up, but now I can watch it without crying (mostly). But as Alexandra matter-of-factly told me that once people die they don't come back, I was so thankful that Sesame Street had taught that to her. Hands down, it's the best children's television out there.

At the conclusion of our conversation, Alexandra said, "Well, sometimes when your daddy gets really old, like 19, they might die. And then other people share their daddies with you." I asked her if she'd share her daddy with Luca, and she bluntly replied, "I think that'd be okay." (In order to fully appreciate her end of the conversation, you have to picture her little head weaving back and forth and her hands gesticulating every statement like a little old Italian lady.)

As always, she lightly entered and exited this conversation, but it's still weighing heavy on me.

Firework

I had about five students tell me this week that I look like the woman giving birth in the new Katy Perry "Firework" video, so tonight, since Adam's in CT and I have ample time to procrastinate on my own, I found it and just watched it about five times. And yes, I do kinda look like her in that we're both White women with brown hair, bangs, and a decent-sized nose, so I'm kinda flattered that they actually thought of me. I love getting my pop culture references from them.



But something about this song really moved me. The video just seemed so powerful. And yes, before you crucify me as a pop music addict and refuse to take me seriously--watch it.

First, I don't think there's really a more perfect comparison to giving birth than to feeling like a firework is exploding out of you in the most amazing and terrifying feeling that that might bring. So, the woman giving birth--my doppelganger--really spoke to me. Especially since I birthed both my babies on my back and probably had a similar look of terror/exhaustion on my face as my firework babies emerged. Doesn't every woman? Really impressive metaphor there.

Secondly, the little girl with cancer just ripped me apart. Yes, because she was a little girl with cancer and if that doesn't just make you fall to pieces you are obviously not human, but also because of a story I heard on NPR probably 13 or so years ago. The story went over creative ways to celebrate the end of life, and one way was to get cremated and use your ashes in the creation of some fireworks and then to set them off in your honor. I LOVE that idea. No lie. I want to be a firework when I die. Every time Adam and I have seen fireworks together I point out the colors and shapes and sounds I like for future reference. So, when I saw that little girl my mind traipsed over the the death zone and I got all emotional.

And lastly, I freakin' love this vein of pop songs that celebrates being DIFFERENT and, as an educator, I can't say enough what a desperately needed mantra that is for youth today. I could make a whole post on that, but I'll save that for another day. Pink's "Raise A Glass" is another song like this that came out recently.



Maybe I am just a pop music aficionado, but watch the video. Am I wrong? It's spectacular.