Hug a Teacher

My boyfriend and I were sitting on the couch the other night. It had been a long work week, with a 14 hour work day nestled right in the middle of it. It felt like a job just to keep my eyes open. We were talking about our day when he asked if I had heard what happened to the young teacher in Massachusetts. My heart fluttered. The word “happened” implied past tense and the word had a sad and eerie feeling to it. He then told me she was murdered by her student. I shuddered, trying hard not to think about the maelstrom of events that were probably unfolding for her grieving family- the relentless and invasive digging that this child’s attorney will most likely do into this woman’s personal life in an attempt to find a reason to justify this sick kid’s actions. As teachers, we stand on the front line, sometimes up against the world’s most angry children. Our job is to teach learning strategies and information and yet, built into our unwritten curriculum we must also teach them love, life-skills, caring and tolerance. We must try to sell to them on the idea that the world is truly a good place when we aren’t always so sure ourselves. We parent these children and often bend and mold ourselves into the people they need us to be in order to fill the gaping holes they have in their lives left by situations beyond their control. At times, I feel this tug the world has on me to be superhuman; to be able to toggle between being loving and tough, professional and parental. I must openly accept criticism from parents, politicians, colleagues, and evaluators and accept the idea that on a daily basis we will be told that we are not meeting our children’s needs, that we are deficient. Then we must still smile hard and comfort a struggling student who is frustrated. I’m frustrated too, sweet babies. Each morning, my alarm clock shrieks and vibrates on the nightstand reminding me it’s not Saturday. It’s time to face a day where almost anything can happen. Anything can be brought into my classroom. Sometimes I find myself re-braiding a student’s braid that came loose on the way to school and I think about the hurried pony tail my own child has. I dig through my purse for granola bars because a student was tardy and missed breakfast and I think about the convenient breakfast full of sugar I started my kid’s day with. I often have to train my brain to remember I’m a mommy first. Teachers spend their days drawing boundaries for the child who wants to be mothered yet still finding ways to show they are listening and they care. We try hard to relate to the boy who hates the world. We keep our cool when he’s tearing up his work or scrawling thick black pencil across the assignments we’ve most likely spent our own personal time at home creating. We find things to love in the children with very few lovable traits. We must sometimes find creative ways to communicate with students who speak no English. We make small decisions every day for children who have never had the chance to problem solve. “There is a chair by my desk, Miss. Where should I put it?” “My paper is a little wrinkly. My friend told my other friend she doesn't want to be my friend anymore. How do I make her be my friend? Miss, what should I do?” “I don’t like chicken and it’s the only thing for lunch. What should I do?” “Someone peed on the bathroom floor. What should I do?” “My pencil lead is dull. What should I do?” We are mediators in arguments between children whose real battle is that they’re looking for some control and stability in their own lives and may only get the empowerment they need by hurtfully draining it from others. We spend our Fridays trying to harness the energy we can feel building up inside our students, ready to come out in the form of unbridled chaos and by the time the weekend comes, our brains and hearts are aching and sore. Sometimes, we are the only safe place for a child to bump into and we are on the receiving end of aggression we don’t deserve. Sometimes our hearts are raw with emotion when our children are suffering yet we are also some of the very few who get to experience the unbelievable joy they feel when they reach a goal they thought was impossible. We are not the only people who are pushed to their limits. I know that. We are regular people that are stretched like rubber bands.. trying to maintain a bit of cohesion in a classroom where the outside world visits far too often. I can't make any guarantees to any young teachers going into the field that this will happen but I know for myself, even when your heart and ego are bruised and you're spending your evenings peeling dried glue off of your fingers and you hate the sound of your own last name, in the end, when that child you thought you'd never reach gives you a hug so tight it gives you goosebumps, it's worth it. It's so worth it.

Lost my sh!t at Publix.

I woke up this morning to the sound of the peanut’s bedroom door opening. The paint on the door sticks to the paint on the frame and each morning it sounds quite similar to a shotgun blast when it opens. It jolts me awake faster than any cup of coffee I could possibly have brewing downstairs. Like every morning, I heard her feet shuffling down the carpeted hallway and the sound of Abby, our kitten, pouncing on her blanket as it’s trailing behind her. With one eye peaking open just a bit, I watched her heave her blanket and her Dora the Explorer doll up onto the bed, clumsily slide her mass of tangled blond hair out of her face with her hand and then shuffle back to her room for Abby Cadabby, Curious George, Baby Toby and Baby Mia.

I can gauge what type of day it’s going to be solely based on the immediate demands that are made by her when she discovers that I am, in fact, awake. My favorite moments are the ones where she wraps her arms around my neck and asks me what I dreamt about or moves my hair out of my face and tells me I’m her “best fren” and “I wike your hair, momma.” These times happen most often.

However, today I was hit with a critical Cocoa Puff interrogation which I bombed, followed by a hand over my mouth because my breath was “ginky”. I tried to redeem myself with an offer of pancakes for breakfast only to be caught off guard by a request for a “bamana”, which “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE BAMANAS? I WANT BAMANAS, MOMMA. PLEASE, I WANT BAMANAS!”

Our day proceeded in this manner. A day in which my 2 year old, a child whom I love fiercely, showed me in every possible way that I was not meeting her expectations in any area and I should be seeking employment elsewhere. I threw in a few loads of laundry, we did some crafts and then we headed out to Publix to grab some snacks for our trip to Busch Gardens. I decided it would be ok to prolong nap time for a bit.

At 20, I had all kinds of advice for mothers. I was eager to impart my knowledge and wisdom to all of the parents I saw in the grocery stores whose kids were misbehaving. I made facebook statuses berating some of the things I witnessed in public places. I was shocked at the parents whose kids were screaming at them as they hurried down the aisle, tossing groceries in their cart and acting like they didn’t even hear them. “I’m never going to be that mom.” I would say to myself. “I’m going to do it right.” My intentions were not bad. I was youthful, naïve and obviously impervious to the weight of parenthood.  

A battle typically ensues when I try to tuck the peanut’s legs into the shopping cart. No words are said aloud, but there is a very clear, unspoken agreement that she is going to spread her feet as far apart as possible when it’s time to put them in the cart and that I am to accept it. To avoid this battle, I bypassed the cart today and asked her to be my big helper. She did great holding the green basket and trucking along beside me tossing in the items that I handed her. We had a great conversation about dolphins and sea turtles and how she doesn’t “wike corn dogs. Them’s nasty.” Then, it happened. I tried to avoid it. I steered her away from it and did my best to redirect her towards the fruit snacks but by that time, her eyes had locked onto it. At the end of the aisle sat an enormous display of inflated Spongebob Mylar balloons. When I informed her she wouldn’t be bringing one home with her after she asked me multiple times, she lost. her.  cool. With several other people in the aisle, my child ripped her hand out of mine, dropped the green basket on the ground furiously and threw herself backwards onto the cold tile in a full on tantrum. Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My mind raced. I decided on flight. I could feel the heat rise in my face as I glanced around to find a young couple staring at me in horror and a 21 year old Amy-type scoffing as I lifted my screaming, infuriated child by the armpits and tucked her under my arm like a tiny, fire-breathing football, leaving my basket behind me like a bad memory, its contents all over the floor. I could still feel the heat in my face and the unforgiving Florida sun was beating on us both as I stomped to the car and my squealing baby squirmed under my arm. I must have looked like a madwoman. I heaved my door open, put her in her seat, buckled her in and we took off on a silent ride home, embarrassed about how we had both behaved.

My purpose in writing this is to out loud, in front of all of you, give myself a break.. and give every mom a break that is reading this.. and a verbal fist shaking to all of the young Amy-types that feel compelled to share their novice opinions via nasty comments or scrunched eyebrows about something they have never experienced.

I promised myself that my house would always be clean when I grew up. Reality: I have dishes in my sink every night and my laundry will never be done. My child is clean. Our books are read. We have spent our night singing songs and making crafts.

 I promised I would never wear “mom jeans” or leave the house without mascara. Reality: My child is well-dressed and is a beautiful representation of what I feel is most important in my morning routine.

My child will never scream and cry in public. Reality: My child is learning boundaries. It’s an ugly job.

 I always said I will never yell at my child. Reality: My child needs to see I’m human and I make mistakes. She also needs to see what a truly humble apology looks like.

At 20 years old, I imagined I’d be married by now, driving a Scion and travelling to Europe on my summer vacations. My husband would be a CEO of a major corporation and our children would be flawless and lovely. I would wear floppy hats on the beach and drink margaritas while my kids buried each other lovingly in the sand and said kind words to each other and I would read political satire on my very fancy E-Reader as I sifted sand between my meticulously, pedicured toes.       

Instead, I’m watching endless hours of Team Umizoomi, painting tiny toenails, scooping kitty poop, changing garbage bags, paying bills, brushing through soft, bouncy curls, getting the best hugs around the neck, learning this little person, fixing barbies, and losing my sh!t at Publix. It’s not what I pictured, but it’s real and it’s mine. I’ll take it ;)   

  

My reward.

I pulled into my parking spot at school this morning after dropping the peanuts off at daycare. My windows were down, the spots next to me were empty and the orange sun had just begun peeking over the mass of familiar houses in the subdivision, framing their shadowy peaks. I could hear my rubber tires press against the gritty cement and tiny bits of gravel pop underneath the weight of my car. I coasted into the spot and turned off the key. I took in a deep breath and smiled, which seemed to be the only thing I felt the urge to do at that moment.

When I signed up to be a foster parent, I had to swallow the fact that I had most likely signed away my future as a girlfriend, as a wife. After several relationships stalled because of my lack of free time, or their fear that I was trying to reel them into being a father, I had accepted the fact that a husband wasn’t in the cards for me and that God had called me to do something much different. I trusted that His reward for me would be bountiful. I celebrated in my friend’s relationships and engagements and pregnancies and prayed often that the choices I was making were correct. I often choked down that feeling of missing out on something, reminding myself that God’s love would never leave me wanting more.

It has been a few months since I’ve found the time to post, and my how blessed I’ve been by His grace. In November, my best friend came to visit from New Orleans, pulling me out of my fine-tuned single mother survival routine. In just one day, my life changed so beautifully. In a weird twist of fate, I ended up in the same place as my boyfriend, the golfer. The details are not as important as the outcome but they involved some Bud Light, a seedy bar and a cocktail jukebox mixture of Jason Aldean and Lil Wayne.

In just a few short months, I’ve watched my life transform in ways I’m so undeserving of. While it is far too soon to tell, I am headed towards the path of adoption with my sweet little peanut. While I type this, I can’t help but choke back tears as I remember just a few months ago typing in this same context, only the fear of losing her shook me to my very core and at times it felt hard to breathe. Now, as I type this I see a picture of my future as her mommy, I picture her toothy smile in her Kindergarten school pictures and her belly laugh as she rides a pony for the first time.    

At times, being a foster parent shows you the bad in people, it’s all you hear about and all of that bad seeps inside you completely undetected, tempting you to believe that it is all life has to offer. I’m trying to figure out how to word this next part so that it sounds as genuine and sincere as it truly feels in my heart and not just orchestrated in order to fill up page space. I’ve met a man that shows me the good in people. I wish I could find words to describe how it feels to watch my child curl up on the couch next to him and rest her head on his hip while she watches t.v., especially considering how deeply he despises Spongebob Squarepant’s grating squeals. I watch her seek him in times of comfort and plead at his feet for more chocolate chip mini muffins. Knowing that it’s not expected of him, I’ve watched him read her a bedtime story and fix her dinner plate. I’ve felt him squeeze my hand when life gets overwhelming or she pushes me to my limits and I’ve been a grateful witness to his kindness and patience when my house is full of prodding case managers, health inspectors and child therapists. He’s a horrible dancer, we aggravate each other sometimes and he will never support me in my efforts to incorporate more vegetables into our daily meals but he has shown me, in a blinding way, God’s love. He is my reward.

Ephesians 4:2 with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love,