Becoming Honey

by Lisa

On December 17,1996, I learned what true love was.  That was the day that Caylee Adyson came into this world and changed my life forever. She weighed 7 lbs 13 oz, she had a head full of black hair, and she was absolutely beautiful!  

She also had jaundice, which to a seasoned mom would be no biggie.  However, since I was a newbie, it was tragic. For two days, I cried uncontrollably and watched helplessly as she lay under the lights with her fragile little body exposed to the cold, sterile environment. I was a basket case. Then- just like that- they discharged us. 

Wait.  What?  

Medical professionals who had taken a solemn oath to care for people were sending this sweet, innocent, sick baby home with me.  I knew nothing about caring for another human being, especially a baby whose liver wasn’t functioning properly. I couldn't spell bilirubin, much less try to decrease their levels. Why were they acting so nonchalant—- like this wasn’t a big deal—- like a lot of babies get this?  My orders were to keep her near indirect sunlight during the day. I was scared to death. What if I misinterpreted direct sunlight for indirect sunlight? Would she burn? What if I didn’t give her enough time in the indirect sunlight? What if there were no indirect sunlight? (Don’t judge me for that last one- I was young and dumb.)  I was certain she would die of jaundice because I was an incompetent mother.  

Thus began my journey of motherhood. After three children- all with jaundice- I now know how common it is and how blessed we were that it was such a minor issue.  But even after 20 years, most days I still feel just as inadequate as a mother as I did when Caylee was born.   It has been a job filled with questioning and second guessing myself. Can they eat cereal two nights in a row for dinner? Should I let the dog lick them in the mouth like that? When did I bathe them last? Should I really give them fever reducer and send them to school when I know they are sick? Was telling them I had professional development really a lie  IF I read an education-related book while lying on the beach? 

It has been both beautiful and ugly- and like nothing I have ever experienced.  There is nothing like watching the excitement in your child as he gets an award or makes a team.  There is nothing more joyful than preparing her for prom. There is nothing harder to watch than your boy suffer a broken heart or watch your little girl cry over hurtful words of mean people.  There is nothing like the “firsts.”  The first tooth. The first steps. The first day of kindergarten. The first time behind the wheel. The first day of senior year.  Some motherhood moments cause us so much pain that we think we may die, and others bring us so much joy that it feels like our hearts will explode. There is nothing like being a mother, and there is nothing like the love a mother has for her children.

Caylee is now 20 years old, and today she learned what true love is. Her baby boy, Emrick Allen, arrived this afternoon. He weighs 7 lbs and 13 oz, he has a head full of black hair, and he is absolutely handsome. I now have a new title: Honey.  Yes, Honey.  I do not feel that “Grandma” (or any other name starting with gran) is fitting, so I will be Honey.

I pray that as Caylee finds her way as a mother that she remembers everything that I did right and nothing that I did wrong.  I pray that she has the patience I didn’t have but the persistence that I did. I pray she isn't a push-over but that she shows him grace. As she gets to watch Emrick’s firsts, I still get to enjoy some more of hers. Her first concern over a fever. Her first time planning a birthday party. Her first time playing Santa and the tooth fairy.  And I will enjoy it all as Honey. 

Some Observations on Observations

            My formal observation is this week, and after fifteen years of writing lesson plans, attending parent conferences, and scoring thousands of essays, it is still the part I hate most about teaching.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  The world of public education definitely needs accountability.  Probably more.  If I’m being completely candid (and I generally am), the one thought that gets me through these dreaded observations each year is the knowledge that some of the clueless yahoos I have worked with in the past still have jobs--in education, no less! And while that concerns me as a parent, the stressed out teacher in me sees it as job security. But it doesn’t make these observations any easier.  Each year without fail, I have trouble sleeping in the days leading up to my observation and then act like a total spaz while it’s happening.  In all fairness, I have a tendency toward spastic behavior, but having an administrator in my classroom just exacerbates the already existent behavior.  I talk too fast, I pace too much, and I hover around my kids like an impatient waitress, trying to take the salad plate before you’ve had the last crouton.  So I always ask myself, “Why are you freaking out? Have you ever failed one of these before?  Haven’t you always been considered ‘highly effective’?”.  But just as in other areas of life, we can’t always rationalize our way out of our irrational behavior, so we cope the best way we know how and try to figure out why we are acting so crazy.  So that is what I did, and this is what I’ve come up with.

 Not suprisingly, the sheer idea of having another adult watch your every word and move is bad enough, but then you throw in 25-30 living, breathing variables, and you have an instant recipe for a nervous breakdown.  You don’t know what kind of day your kids are going to have on any given day.  It could be raining, or cold, or sunny, or an odd-numbered day, or any of the many other arbitrary stimuli that tend to make them act like complete goons.  And let’s be honest.  Even on good days, some of them are absent-minded nose pickers, at best. Do I really want my teaching reputation banking on whatever might come spewing forth from little Johnny Boogereater’s mouth when he’s not eating boogers?  Heck no!  But I have no choice, and truth be told, that’s not even the real issue for me.  I just have to make peace with the fact that at least once a year for at least the next 15 years, there will be another adult in my classroom to make sure I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.  At least once a year, I will get little sleep and act like a total spaz not only in front of my students, but also in front of the other alien presence, who is on a higher pay scale and who will undoubtedly be sitting at my desk with iPad in hand, documenting my knowledge, judging my lesson delivery, and noting my use of classroom space. And therein, my friend, lies the real issue.  That is really where all my anxiety stems from—the presence of an outsider in my classroom with my kids and me. 

One would assume that all the stress and sleeplessness stemmed from not-so-repressed teaching insecurity or low self-esteem, but I’ve found that it is neither of those things. My exaggerated lunacy at this time of year comes from the fact that my classroom, for all its gritty floors and strange smells, is our domain.  In that room, for better or worse, we are a family.  We know each other’s strengths, we’ve learned each other’s quirks, and we understand each other’s humor.  It’s called rapport, and it can’t always be measured on a scale of effectiveness or gauged in a single class period, but it is wildly important.  So this week, my little family and I are going to get through my observation together.  I am going to do lots of praying and probably still act like a chipmunk on crack rocks, and they are going to be oddly quiet and try to say all the things that they think my observer wants to hear, not because they’re scared they might get in trouble, but because at the end of the day, most of them care about me as much as I care about them. So, I’ve made peace with this year’s impending observation, or at least until next year comes, and I’m a basketcase all over again. 

It took Puke to Gain Perspective

by Lisa

Moments ago, as I sat on the floor in the middle of the hallway with the carpet cleaner in hand, I wondered to myself, “what did he eat that, upon regurgitation, would resemble a strawberry daiquiri?” It has been many moons since I held a daiquiri in my hand, but I remember what it looks like, and I am pretty sure fish sticks from the lunchroom wouldn’t manifest itself as a frozen beverage in the afterlife.  

After I got my gag reflex under control and removed the larger chunks from the floor so Talullah and Delilah couldn't eat anymore, I sat there in awe. Not at the red puke that trailed from his bedroom all the way down the hall and through the bathroom to the toilet where he still sat. Not that a ten year old couldn’t practice mouth-containment until he was over the bowl. Not that the dogs found it appetizing.  Not even at the daunting task that lie ahead of me to erase the evidence from the carpet fibers and disinfect the surrounding area so the other littles were less likely to catch it if it were contagious. 

I was in awe of my beautiful life.

How on earth was I sitting on the floor cleaning up puke with a positive attitude? I should be snapchatting it with the "woe is me" emoji as my comment. A few years ago, I would have been frustrated and annoyed that -after a long week- I would have to tackle this mess. I would have asked God “why me?” But tonight I didn’t. Tonight was different. Tonight, I looked at my sweet, sick boy lying on the cool tile floor and I thanked God for trusting me with him. I thanked God for the opportunity to clean up his nasty, smelly puke. 

Honestly, I don’t deserve any of the blessings that my Heavenly Father has poured out on me, but He apparently thinks I do. That still, soft voice reminded me of that tonight as I sat there surrounded by vomit. It reminded me that these dirty little tasks are part of the blessing of being a wife and mother. That is what makes me happy- being a wife and mother. 

So I will attempt to take on these less than glamorous duties with a heart of gladness from now on. I will thank Him for my kids when I am picking up dirty socks and underwear that lay inches- yes, inches- from the laundry hamper. I will thank Him for my husband when he forgets to put the toilet seat down and I find it that way.…at 2 am…with the lights off.  I will pray blessings over their little lives as I step on Leggos and turn off the lights in unoccupied rooms.  

Because I don’t deserve any of them, but I get to have them all. 

And now, as my stomach churns and I get that feeling in my throat right before I throw up, I thank God for being able to catch a stomach bug from my little ones. And I remember one more thing….it was a fruit roll-up. 

Why I am Blogging....Instead of Updating My Status

Writing has always been therapeutic for me.  Sometimes I write things down, and then I throw it away. No one ever reads it but me, yet the mere act of writing it down is all that I need.  It started as a little girl. I kept a diary, and I even- dare I say it- dabbled in poetry. Boy, am I thankful that technology wasn't around then....if my ode to Rick Springfield or my sonnet about Ralph Macchio and the other cast members of The Outsiders made its way to the internet for others to read, I would be mortified. From pen pal letters to college essays, sitting down to write something new has always been scary and exciting.

So naturally I would be interested in blogging, and, in fact, for years I have been intrigued by (and somewhat jealous of) the mom-bloggers I follow. They seemed to have mastered the art of mom-ing and wife-ing and all the other -ings I want to be  successful at. Not only that but they could so eloquently share their experiences, making all of their -ings seem so easy. That is what I wanted to do too, but there was a problem.  My -ings weren't easy and kept me so busy that I couldn't imagine adding one more thing to my "to do" list. I more often than not feel like I am failing at my responsibilities, and no one wants to watch (or read about) a train wreck.

But two years have passed since I first became interested in blogging. I have experienced loss, excitement, disappointment, happiness, and a multitude of other emotions that life has delivered. With all of them, I wanted to write about what I was feeling, but the busyness of life kept me from it. So now I am.

Why blog, right?  Why not just make a quick post on social media about my daily victories or defeats and move on? That's what most people do, and I could use the extra time to do my other -ings, like grading papers, folding laundry, or bathing kids.

I choose not to post my life musings on social media for several reasons.  The first reason is simply that I want to try this blog thing. It is on my bucket list, along with meeting Mark Wahlberg and visiting Hawaii.  I also want to blog as a way to be considerate of others.  Yes, that's right! I don't want to irritate the people on my friends list.  No one wants to open Facebook to see my dissertation on the latest event I find significant enough to write about. You know I am right. How many times have you scrolled past a post of a friend- and rolled your eyes- because the post was more than a paragraph in length? We all have those friends who will write an essay about their trip to Walmart. Well, I refuse to be that friend (you're welcome.)

On a more serious note, God convicted me.  Recently, the Holy spirit began to deal with me about three specific things concerning social media: my spirit, my time, and my motives.  The bible says this:

"I will not set before my eyes anything that is worthless."

Psalm 101:3

"Don't waste your time on useless work, mere busywork, the barren pursuits of darkness." 

Ephesians 5:11 

"Let nothing be done through selfish ambition or conceit, but in lowliness  of mind let each esteem others better than himself."  

Philippians 2:3

2 Timothy 3:2 explains that in the last days people will love themselves, and Romans 12:2 reminds us to not be conformed to this world. However, social media makes it easy to forget these warnings. We tend to look for validation in how many "likes" or "retweets"  we get, and before we know it, our time is consumed with checking our approval rating on these sites. We get wrapped up in the social media personas we have created that, let's face it, are not even close to the hot mess that our lives really are. We (unintentionally) read foul language and see inappropriate pictures posted by others, and it truly affects our spirit. We also neglect duties and responsibilities, and more importantly ignore people sitting right in front of us.  All that the scripture warns us about happens without us even realizing it.  If I am not careful, my time on social media hinders a closer walk with God and distracts me from my duties as a mom, wife, teacher, and friend.

So those are the reasons I choose to blog. I can write about it and walk away, and no one has to see it who doesn't want to. I can vent, reflect, contemplate and then go to bed. It will be my little dairy without a key.  (And I don't lose my Jesus in the process.)

So I will now set out on this blogging journey, and who knows how it will go!  It may only last as long as my very brief fascination with scrapbooking, but at least it won't be as expensive.