Double double toil and trouble

My husband quoted Shakespeare the other day. I know. I was shocked too. We were discussing potential names for our second daughter who is due in three weeks when he threw out the famous, "What's in a name?" line from William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.  My heart soared with admiration and I immediately fell in love with him all over again ... and then he said "Hey! Isn't that a line from somewhere?"

Seriously.

Now maybe this isn't a big deal to the average person but Shakespeare is sort of "my thing". My Master's degree focused on Shakespeare. My favorite class to teach is Shakespeare. My favorite shows to direct or perform in are Shakespeare. So, yeah, I am a little bias towards The Bard.  In fact, I've always just assumed that most of the general population knows at least something Shakespearean. But after that fateful day, I've begun to question people's familiarity with the greatest playwright of all time.  I mean, is it really possible that there ARE people out there who don't know that "What's in a name?" comes from Romeo and Juliet and/or that Romeo and Juliet is written by William Shakespeare?

If these people exist, I feel obligated to hunt them down and educate them. To do this, we will need a plan. First we will need to find them. I doubt these people will voluntarily step forward so we need some other way to separate them from those of us that know The Bard. I think we can easily do this at the next election. Instead of ballots for "Republican" or "Democrat", we will make them for "Knows Something About Shakespeare" and "Huh?"

Next, we will quarantine the "Huh?"s. Yes, we will have to quarantine them because we can't have their friend whisper "To be or not to be" in their ear when we aren't looking and then have them pass it off as if they know that line. Once they are all in one place, I can teach them what "thy" means and what exactly is iambic pentameter. I can recite monologues and enact scenes and tell them why Iago hated Othello so much. I can teach them history incorrectly, as written in the history plays and convince them that the nephews of Richard III still haunt the Tower of London.

Oh it will be glorious! Young men and women will woo each other in sonnet form once again and we will remember that a "comedy" doesn't always have to make you laugh but it should have at least one sex-related joke. You don't have to pay me.  Honestly.  I'll do it for free.  My pay will be the joy I have in just knowing that I have enriched the lives of, um, hundreds? Thousands? Millions?  Oh no.  Not millions?!  There can't possibly be millions of people who don't know at least a little Willy. Can there? Oh dear. I better get started.  Let's start with YOU.

Which ballot would you like?

Congo the Christmas Dinosaur

My niece, let's call her Addi (because that's her name), recently got her picture taken with a Christmas dinosaur in June.  She spotted him at a swap meet on a mountain in Arkansas.  And I'm jealous.

Addi and Congo.  (Congo is the green one.)

Apparently Addi's parents think going through other people's junk is fun (and they're right), so they drove Addi up a mountain to do just that recently.  They probably promised her they'd get her something, just as all parents who've been to a yard sale with children do.  Addi wanted this Christmas dinosaur, because she has exceptional taste.  Addi's mom said no because, according to her, "It's two-thousand dollars.  And concrete.  And two-thousand dollars."  I don't think that's the real reason, though.  I suspect it has more to do with the fact that she didn't have enough Germ-X in her purse to properly wash Congo.

When it was apparent that Addi and Congo wouldn't be BFFs, I decided it was okay to try to make him mine.  I started with a text to my husband Cy.  

"Can I have two grand?"  I asked.

"No."

"You don't even know what it's for.  Maybe I'm saving someone's life!  Aren't you going to ask?"

"No."

"What if I told you it was for Christmas?"

"Wife, you don't shop until December.  I'm trying to work."

"Okay, then I'll be quick and to the point.  It's for a Christmas dinosaur.  He's well made and green.  I call him Congo.  If you give me two thousand dollars, he'll live on our porch ... after you load him up and bring him down the mountain.  (I'd suggest a truck and some friends.)  I love you."

And he said ... nothing.  Because he doesn't care about my wants.  Typical.

I called Addi's mom and told her I couldn't take Congo for two-thousand bucks, but I'd give a solid forty dollars for him.  I'd go sixty-five if he was wearing a Christmas vest -- maybe something with bells.  She told me she didn't think the seller would go for that, but she knew where I could get some pretend deer that I could dress up myself.  Unfortunately (very, very unfortunately) most of my neighbors already have fake deer in their yards, and I wanted something more.  

Defeated, I shot off another text to Cy:

"It's not for me.  It's for the Mennonites that live in our backyard.  I'm going to sneak him into their garden, and when they see him, they'll be so damned excited that they'll be all 'Holy shit!  Our neighbors are cool!  We'll forgive all the naked swimming they do and bake them some bread in appreciation of Congo.'  I may even paint him black first.  They like black."

Then I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And ate a fruit bar and waited some more.

Eventually, I got tired of waiting on a text from the man who promised to love, honor, and cherish me, so I consulted with my eleven-year-old son.  He said, "Mom, just because the Mennonites live behind us doesn't mean they live in our backyard."  And then he put his headphones on and walked away.  

I suppose I'll have to proceed with Plan B:  Fundraising.  I wonder how much the three-year-old has in her piggy bank?

I Need a Manager

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Father's Day

Father's Day is this Sunday! June 17th my friends!

Here's a quick gift that's easy, functional, and super frugal!


Tile Coasters

supplies - 
4 1/4 x 4 1/4 ceramic tiles (these  are 16 cents at Home Depot - they worked great!)
felt
Sharpies
clear water proof sealer
glue gun
ribbon

This is a great project for kids of all ages. Set them free with the Sharpies and tiles. They'll seriously amaze you with some of the designs they come up with!

(excuse the cell phone quality) 

The Sharpies are pretty permanent, but the color can be scratched off, so you need to seal the tiles. For that, I used a clear gloss sealer found in the wood/paint section of Hobby Lobby.

Once that was dried, I cut 4x4 inch squares of felt and attached them to the back of the coasters with hot glue to prevent scratching. 

Stack them, tie with ribbon, and you're done! 

Oil and Water

You know how when you put oil and water together, they immediately separate? We learned that in about 2nd grade I believe.  In the past year, I have been two different entities.  One is oil, and you can guess what the other one is....water.  As a mother and a wife, I am water. I can take on many different forms, many different shapes and I can usually find my way into any crack or crevice of my families lives, whether I'm wanted there or not (like when my son sneaks snacks into his underwear drawer for his midnight "A'int goin down till the sun comes up" parties.  I.e..  Me: "Trace, go put the snack away before you go to bed" Trace: "How did you KNOW!!!???")  And also like water, I wash away tears, owies, and dirt off of dropped apples.  I am fluid when I need to be, moving things around, changing directions and finding the easiest road to take. But as hard and unyielding as a rock when it's necessary, which is never the preferred state for water, it will always return to fluid at the first available opportunity.  I welcome this part naturally, as most mothers do and enjoy the little things, laugh off the crazy things and cry over the bad ones.  This is part of being a woman and it's the best part. 
There is another entity in me though.  I affectionately call this one Oil.  This is the passionate part of me.  This is when I walk out the door in my uniform and dare to call myself a Paramedic.  You see, ever since I was a kid, I thought "ambulance people" were the coolest things ever.  But I never thought about it as a career until I was 23.  I became an EMT about five years ago and when I was looking at potential careers, I felt like a child with a star shaped block turning a cube over and over again trying to make it fit the square, the circle, the triangle, getting frustrated and tossing the cube and then coming back to it, doggedly holding that star KNOWING it goes somewhere special.  And just like that, my first day of EMT school....that hole that I didn't take seriously, that I didn't think looked anything like my star at first, inexplicably, just fit. I knew emergency medicine was where I needed to be.
In my area of residence, however, EMT is only one step toward the coveted title of "Paramedic".  Last year I decided it was time to take the final jump.  Medic school (enter the doomsday music- dum dum DUMMMMMMMMMM *woman shrieking*)  Medic school has always been affectionately referred to as "The worst year of your life", or the "Widow maker's school" and the first question asked of a married person is "How does your wife/husband feel about it?"  It's a full time job and then some.  My husband is my official "Medic school widow".  I love that man.  He picks up the slack at home as much as someone who works 60+ hours a week at his own job can and never complains.  Never.  My poor, mother-less children don't even question me anymore when I say "I can't baby, I have to study or I have to be at school". They accept it and cling to the hope that I'm telling them the truth when I say that it won't be like this much longer, that I'm almost done.  I am in the very last leg of school, as an intern. I am a paramedic, but I have another paramedic standing over my shoulder for 600 hours molding me into a GOOD paramedic instead of a bumbling student, full of knowledge and a wealth of mannequin-only skills acquired in a controlled (and air conditioned) room, during a fake scenario, when the chance of me killing someone is limited to myself or my classmates (no one is safe when a bone drilling instrument is being wielded by an overzealous medic wannabe!)  And so, I refer to this time of transition as Oil.  Oil is not always pleasant, but it's necessary in order to get that smooth moving demeanor and confidence that you imagine when someone walks in your door after you've called 911 because the love of your life, your husband, just dropped to the ground clutching his chest.  Oil has the ability to turn something squeaky and noisy and not very subtle, into something you don't even question because it moves so fluidly that the idea of it ever being a pile of rough edges and mismatched parts is ludicrous. 
At this point in time, I've been balancing this oil and water act for awhile, and there are times when I think, It's working!! I've successfully mixed oil AND water and they are staying mixed!  My kids are happy that I made it to chaperon a field trip!  I was able to squeeze that parent-teacher conference in on my way to work.  I'm happy.  I've beat the odds, right!?  And then...somewhere along the way, it's...shifting (NO!!) it's moving back, oil is separating and water is settling on the bottom, always having to settle.  I'm walking out the door as one child is in bed with dry heaves because he has nothing left to throw up and the other one is crying because she might miss school since Grandma won't be able to take the puking one out of the house to take her.  It feels like abandonment. I can't just call in sick like I would at my regular job as an EMT, this is different, this is medic school (cue the music please) and you don't miss a single day, you just can't.  There are days when I wonder how my husband felt last week when he was unexpectedly called off work, and excited about it because we would be off the same day, until I crush him with the fact that I have a study group that day for my upcoming test.  By the time I'm done, the kids are home, and the evening rat race is in full swing.  I wonder how he feels when I crawl into bed at 1am after a 14 hour shift on the ambulance and I am so numb, emotionally, physically and mentally, that I get annoyed if he so much as puts his arm around me because I am not...there, if that makes any sense.
And so, I work as hard as I can to keep these two parts of my self swirling together, mixing and churning and coexisting peacefully.  The only way to do that is to never stop shaking.   

Today is my last day of work.  No, not forever or even indefinitely, but for the near future.  For the past ten years I have been a teacher.  I have taught at five different schools, ranging in diversity, socio-economic class and geographical location.  The longest amount of time I have been away from a classroom during these last ten years was to have my daughter at the end of March in 2008, take 2 months off of work and then have summer vacation with her before returning to my post that fall.  Today is the last day of work before summer break at my current place of employment.  The difference between today and all other last days of work before summer breaks is that, when I walk out of here today, I am not walking back in here in the fall.

I’m due to have our second child on July 18^th (35 days, not counting today…but who’s counting at all?).  With a newborn and a four year old at home, the high price of day care and the low salary of teachers in the south, returning to work in the fall was a ludicrous idea.  I would barely make enough money to support putting my daughters in child care and frankly, the hassle of getting them there before I have to report to school (at 6:55am!) was just going to be too much.  I applied for a year of Parental Leave which guarantees me a job in a year but can’t tell me where that job is or in what capacity.  I know not returning to my secure teaching position in the fall is the best decision, but I find that conflicting emotions are toying with me today.

When I was little I used to sit my stuffed animals and Cabbage Patch Dolls up in rows, grab a ruler and a piece of paper and conduct “school”.  I don’t know how much I taught them, but I do know that they were much quieter than my classes these days!  When it came time to choose a career, I never dreamt of doing anything other than teaching.  I knew it was my calling and I willingly answered the call.

As today slowly creeps to a close, I find that I am happy, excited and even nervous at the prospect of a year away from the classroom.  Believe me, I know just how incredibly blessed I am that I get to stay home next year.  If we still lived in New England, this would not be a possibility simply due to the high cost of living and the fact that I earned so much more teaching up there.  Down here though, I am thrilled to begin this new adventure as a temporary Stay At Home Mom. 

But, (there is always a “but”), I also fear that I will be really bad at it.  I thrive on being busy, being social, and, mostly, on using my intelligence.  What if my brain atrophies during my hiatus?! 

As much as I have complained over the past ten years, I truly love being an educator.  I love being able to tell people that I am a teacher and it is certainly something that has defined me over the years.  Now, on the brink of at least one year without work, I wonder, “What will define me now?”  “What will I say when someone asks me ‘what do you do?’”  Will it be enough to say “I’m a mom”?

Yeah.  I think so.

Dance Mom

Last week my four year old had her first dance recital and I had my first experience as a “Dance Mom”.  When I signed her up for dance class one day a week from September to the end of May, I never in a million years thought I’d undergo the true dance mom experience.  The 30 minute ballet/30 minute tap class was just supposed to be something different for us to do on hump day to help break up the otherwise long, monotonous week.  I did not realize it meant hundreds of dollars, late nights and *gasp* make-up!

                I began to have an inkling as to what exactly I had signed up for when it was February and her dance teacher told the moms that we owed $100 for dance recital costumes.  The instructor had picked out a Raggedy Anne costume (wig included!) to match their tap dance to “Raggedy Anne” and a blue puffy tutu get-up to go along with their ballet routine to the song “Rainbow Connection”.  The other moms oooh-ed and aaah-ed over the costumes and wrote their checks.  I wondered why a Raggedy Anne costume cost $50 but then just pretended like I knew this was coming all along and signed my check over with a plastic smile on my face.  Meanwhile, her weekly dance classes had turned into the same two songs (yes, “Raggedy Anne” and “Rainbow Connection”) played on repeat over and over and over again.  I was bored with hearing it through the wall so I could only imagine that my four year old was bored with it as well.

                Fast-forward a couple of months and we get to picture day, (more money to buy her dance photos!), and then dress rehearsal followed by the shows.  In the weeks preceded the recital, I began receiving emails from her dance school every other day.  These emails involved everything from when/how to buy tickets (yes more money spent!), instructions on what they needed to wear, how to do their hair and how to purchase flowers after the recital.  Honestly, I didn’t read them.  Who has time to read page after page of this crap?  I simply asked the other moms in her class what I was supposed to do and they kindly filled me in. 

                When the first recital came last Thursday I knew I was in over my head.  The backstage area was mobbed with moms and daughters and their fold out chairs, hanging racks, make-up/hair stations and snack bags.  My daughter and I cautiously crept to the corner of the room, backpack in hand, and sat on the floor.  I pulled out the $5 make-up kit that I had just purchased at CVS and began to apply blue eye shadow to my four-year-old’s eye lids.  I pulled out her costumes, slightly wrinkled since I didn’t own the miniature garment bags for children’s clothing that literally everyone else seemed to possess, and began to dress her.  Around us little girls ran left and right, compared costumes, snacked on Goldfish and sat dutifully in their chairs while their mothers shouted commands at them, “Close your eyes!  Don’t turn your head!  Stop touching your hair!”  After I finally managed to put my daughter’s hair into a “bun”, I shyly asked another mom if I could borrow her hairspray.  She handed me her giant can of spray, looked at my child, and said “First recital?”  I nodded “and last” I thought to myself.  When it was finally my daughter’s turn to be called to get into place for her first dance I hugged her hard and sent her along with the five other girls in her class then quickly hurried to my seat in the auditorium. 

                The lights dimmed.  I breathed a sigh groaning to myself as I recalled the fact that we would have to do this all over again for Saturday’s recital.  I could make out my daughter’s figure as she took the stage in the dark.  The lights went on.  The music that I had begrudgingly heard over and over again week after week began.  My daughter smiled brightly, spotting me in the front row. 

And I, well, I cried like a baby and couldn’t wait to see her in her next number.

Grandma and Christian

     This entry is entirely rushed.  I hate to miss a deadline (Friday is my day to blog!), but, this week, I've hated even more to tear myself away from the miserably written pages of Fifty Shades of Grey, which I've had to balance with out-of-town baseball games, swimming lessons, and physical therapy.  (Confession:  I finished it today and immediately downloaded book two.)  It's disgusting.  It's miserably written.  It should be a drinking game with all the "inner goddess," "shades," "flogger."  And it reminds me of my Grandma.

     My grandmother passed away in mid-February, and I'm nowhere near over her loss.  The clinic I was in yesterday had CMT on the television.  Grandma always watched country music videos on CMT, and sometimes she muted it ... which is pretty hilarious.  (Go on.  Think it over.)  The last program we watched together was a biography on Lady Antebellum, and I still crumble when one of their songs comes on the radio.  My three-year-old still asks if we can go see Grandma in Room 5 whenever we pass the hospital.  I miss that woman so much.  

     Grandma was strict in a way that grandmothers should be.  She never gave away the mysteries of her childhood, and she acted as though she'd never sinned.  (We know better, but those are stories for another day.)  Grandma's sole vice was her "romance" novels.  When I was young, I ran my finger down the spines of her vast collection of Harlequins, not knowing what they were.  In recent years, I spotted novels with racy names  and covers with shirtless men on her Kindle.  It was an unspoken rule that we weren't weren't allowed to talk about it, but, clearly, Grandma preferred smut to literature.  I love that about her.

     Grey isn't my kind of book.  I prefer comedy and memoir.  We never really talked books, Grandma and I, even though we were both avid readers.  I wish she was still here.  I want to know if we'd talk about Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele, or if we'd both even admit to reading it.  Her birthday is in August, and I would've loved to gift her with the trilogy and a secret smile.  I'd like to hear her admonish me for buying such a gift and then hug me tightly, patting my back as she did so.  

     I miss her.

     

     (And that's the end, because I'm crying.  Damnit.)