Be Kind

Across the state of Ohio this morning, sharpened pencils and thick test booklets were handed out; stock rose in bulk sales of mints and pocket sized kleenex; granola bars were consumed in the thousands; principals joked that we had, in fact, reached "Def Con 1."

State testing began.

But this is not a blog post about the unfair money-making biased teach-to-the-test schemes of big government testing.

This is about a girl.

Since I am not a "core" teacher (math, science, social studies, language arts), I am generally given a small group of students to administer the state tests to: kids that need extra time, the test read to them, etc.

This year I was given one student.

Eighth grade girl, pale, freckly, should be a red head but she prefers jet black.

Loves bling-y jewelry and her hot pink cell phone.

Tall, slim, with an affinity for glitter-fied or sequined clothes.

Currently in the foster care system.

Be kind; for everyone you meet is fighting a battle.

This has been my mantra for her all semester.

She talks back, she murmurs unkind things, she is demanding, unreasonable, and she doesn't give a flying pie about French, let alone math or reading or history or anything outside her immediate need to feel loved, accepted, and to survive.

But she's fighting a battle. A life I know so little about.

During the practice state test about a month ago, when she was finished, I asked her about her life.

The details she gave were painful, and although I'm not sure they were all true, even if only moderately embellished, my heart still broke.

I thought maybe I'd softened a little.

And then she pulled out her old antics and I felt myself grow rigid.

She does more than just tap dance across her teachers' patience--she stomps on us.

This morning she walked into my room, and even though it was just me and her and two and a half hours of quiet, it turned into a little more.

My maternal instinct took over, and I spent those two and a half hours nurturing.

The heat was turned off this morning, so our students tested in classrooms that were about forty-five to fifty degrees.

I got her a blanket.

Her hands were getting numb.

I heated up hot water for her to wrap around a mug.

She looked at me half way through and said, "I don't want to do this anymore."

So we took a walk. She ate some fruit snacks.

And back to work.

When she finished the test, she did a few missing assignments for me, which didn't go far in the gradebook because she hasn't turned in anything this quarter.

And then, one hour left, no academic work to be done. What to do?

We talked.

And talked.

I asked her about food she loves, and her face lit up like a sunny day as she described what she was good at making (fish sticks and chicken nuggets).

I learned she just tried shrimp for the first time--pan fried without the breading--and she loved it. If she wanted to eat cheap she'd go to Steak-n-Shake, and if she wants a really fancy meal she would go to Red Lobster.

I discovered she loves steak and mac-n-cheese, and triple chocolate cake, but she doesn't care for rice, unless it's plain white rice with ranch dressing poured on top.

"My grandma taught me to eat rice that way."

A rare familial connection.

My heart didn't just soften; it melted completely, to watch one child full of so much anger and pain forget for a moment and beam. I think, for a brief moment, her face expressed a joy I haven't seen in the  four months I've known her.

I think, in that moment, she felt accepted, and loved, and cared for. All of her basic needs met.

At least, this is how I hope she felt.

The little assignment she did for me after testing was finished?

A rising sun.

She is my constant reminder to be kind.

Ode to the Burpee

People carry themselves into a hot and sweaty yoga class for a variety of different reasons.

Mostly those reasons tend toward asana--the physical poses themselves.

Maybe sometimes it's pranayama--forcing oneself to breathe, and stick with the breath when they want to hold it in--a metaphor for dealing with life's "tough stuff" off the mat.

There are six other really legit reasons to start a yoga practice, to walk into a studio, to unroll your mat and be present.

Four months ago, a teacher and friend I came to know through yoga opened up a studio literally a song and a half's car ride away from my house.

And here I found my mat again...reunited with my breath...reignited my fire and strength. 

And here, my teacher and friend introduced me to the yoga burpee. 

Burpee: noun. popular form of torture in boot camp style fitness classes across the globe. generally involves quick movements, elevated heart rate, and testing of stamina.

In other words, it kicks your ass.

Put a burpee in a yoga class, and you think, "Yeah, pretty sure Patanjali didn't intend for that to be a part of any branch of yoga." 

Oh but yes...it is.

When I request it in the class I regularly attend, or I hear her announce at the beginning we are going to do them, I get really excited--like, big-grin-can't-be-wiped-off-my-face I am so excited. 

I look around the room and the reactions of other students are more...smoosh-face-crinkle-nose-audible-moan-of-terror. 

But here's what a burpee does for me--for all of us. First, it's fun. It's like flying on a trapeze: jump back, rise up, jump forward, leap, repeat. You feel light. I feel free.

Second, it's a total in-the-moment thing. There is no room for your chitta, your shit, your bad day, or guilt, or stress. It's you and the next jump, the next breath.

Which brings me to three: you absolutely have to breathe. You inhale through power and exhale through release and you find the rhythm and move. 

And that's number four: movement. Moving is fun. Jumping and leaping are things we haven't done since we were five. You release expectation and you move. And when there is no expectation, you find yourself in a moment of pure joy. You smile. There is absolutely nothing serious about yoga...and good grief there is zero seriousness in a yoga burpee. 

Finally, at the end of a yoga burpee, you pause. Your breath is moving rapidly, but it's fire. And your heart feels like it's going to pound right out of your chest.

"Feel that?" my teacher friend says. "Feel that pounding? That's your reminder you're alive." 

Eight limbs of yoga or not, I come to my mat to feel alive. 

Toddlers & Teens

I am fortunate enough (although in the eyes of many, perhaps unfortunate) to be with children all day long.

I leave teenagers at the end of the day to go home to toddlers.

Two extremes, neither of which a parent will tell you is a "golden age."

I beg to differ.*

For every eye roll and heavy sigh and groan I may get from a thirteen year old, I can go home to Will singing, "You are the BEST mommy in the world!"

Even when I feel like I'm not.

For every arched back crying tantrum I get from Reid during a diaper change, I can walk into my classroom and hear, "Thanks for the help Mrs. K." (Because oh yes, teenagers can be polite. I promise you.)

For every time I bang my head against a wall at wrong verb conjugations and sentence order that makes no sense in any language including "Jibberish," I can go home and babble in Jibberish with Reid and sing songs about the moon with Will and feel my heart tell my head it's okay.

For every Will meltdown, complete with harsh words spoken by a little mind who is repeating and not understanding--meltdowns that test my patience, strength, and heart--I can look at the faces in the seats in my room and know that he'll probably turn out alright.

For every face in those seats that I know has seen pain unlike anything I will see in my lifetime, I can go home and squeeze those little ones and tell them how much they are loved.

And always will be.

Teaching--like parenting--is a job that can swell your heart so big you feel it will burst in one breath and then pull on the strings that hold it together in the next.

There is always a yin to the yang.

Choosing these roles in my life--best decisions I've ever made.

Sometimes when you're in a good place, you just want to share.

*at least today...I haven't been home yet to pick up Reid only to have him scream when I put him down, nor have I been witness to any Will meltdowns, and in my classroom today things went okay. So...there's that.

Light

As so many parents often are, I was on my own yesterday while Greg helped my dad with some things around his house.

In general, it wasn't a difficult day...except that we abandoned a cart full of things at Target because Will was yelling to the store what an awful mom I was for not letting him ride at the bottom.

And then when we got home, he whacked his little brother in the head with a plastic frying pan.

And after nap time, I had to call poison control because he decided to pour himself a rather large dose of Children's Tylenol.

(Not to worry--he was fine. And pain free for at least the rest of the day.)

My children are not any more trying than yours--that's just kids. And even though I often feel like the only mom screwing up on a daily basis, I have to believe I'm not alone.

But when both boys woke up from naps, I found myself completely exhausted.

I wanted to crawl into bed and sleep until Tuesday.

I wanted to rest my body, my mind, my heart.

Because even though you and I are so alike, "I" feel like I am screwing up.

All the time.

I feel darkness hanging over us as my hands raise in the air and I scream, "I don't know what I'm doing! Please send an instruction manual, or get me a guy named Tom in India who can tell me how to reset and reboot!" 

It can be overwhelming.

Is anyone out there with me?

So in the midst of putting ice on foreheads, and talking to Robert at Poison Control (he was no Indian Tom, but he did help), I passed by my bedroom.

And I saw this.

My crumpled bed, in my messy room, bathed in this sea of brightness, as if it were calling to me, "I'm here. You can rest. Be warm. Fill up with love. Recharge."

I didn't take up Her offer (because my bed is a she, duh).

But I did take the opportunity to reflect--in however brief a moment--that I am enough.

One deep breath in and one really, heavy, weight-releasing sigh out.

That even in my darkest moments of being a mom, I am my kids' light, and they are mine.

That they seek me to rest and soothe and recharge. And sometimes, although it isn't my bed, curling up with them and tousling their hair and reading a book is all it takes to do the same for me.

If only these moments came more frequently.

There will be days when I'll long to have them this small...and in those days, I'll feel rested.

Light.

Maybe.

Canada, eh?

For so many reasons, this trip to Quebec was the best trip I've ever taken with students.

There were no long flights, no money exchanges, no melted hair straighteners in voltage converters.

There was no homesickness, no whining about food, no lack of comforts, like ice in soda.

There were no boring tours of museums, no running around in the hallways at night, no lost passports.

But.

There was teamwork, as we tubed in teams of eight down snow covered mountains, and drove each other in dog sleds.

There was sharing, of hand warmers, chewing gum, wool socks, base layers, french fries, and candy.

So much candy.

Like, dentists are going to be so happy we came back. 

There was singing, at the tops of lungs, and in silly voices, to pop tunes that students didn't think their teachers knew the words to (but oh, I knew those words. I'm practically Nikki Minaj).

There was confidence and independence, starting with a very shy "Bonjour" and evolving to "Mrs. Kauffman, how do you say _____ in French? I want to ask myself." 

There was bonding among social hierarchies of students that would not generally interact within the walls of our school. 

Dare I say, there were new friendships formed. 

There was ice cream for breakfast and maple syrup for dinner. And dessert. And lunch. And maybe breakfast, too. 

There was laughing, at each other, with each other, and in the face of frigid temperatures.

And there was a moment...many moments...in which a random middle school French teacher from Cincinnati beamed and smiled and had that melty gushy feeling in her heart and soul that she had never been more sure in her life that this very thing is exactly what she was supposed to be doing.

Thirty-three

It's not every birthday girl who says, "Today isn't about me this year. I don't need a crown, or balloons, or a singing group of waiters with a piece of cake. Skip the flowers and the cards and the parties and the candles. Let's make this year about the greater good."

But the truth is, this birthday girl deserves all of the above and then some.

And it may not have been her intention--she didn't want the fanfare with the birthday, nor with the accomplishment of doing what she did.

But this accomplice wonders, how can one not celebrate someone's desire to make the world a better place?

On her birthday eve, after a night of yoga and dinner and ice cream, we sat on her couch at 11 p.m. and finished prepping for the project. Surrounded by fun markers, and post-its, and stickers and cookies, we taped and scribbled and doodled and wrote.

It was just the beginning of the many random acts of kindness--thirty-three of them to be exact--that my friend Holly (inspired by this blog) chose to do in honor of her thirty-third birthday.

Here's the run-down of the kindness she shared:

1. Donated money to her favorite charity organization.
2. Made yours truly breakfast.



3. Posted a paper at Panera, "Take what you need, then pass it on: Love, Courage, Hope, Faith."



4. Held the door open for a sweet lady at Panera.
5. Left stamps stuck to a mailbox at the Post Office.



6. Bought coffee for a car in the drive-thru at Starbucks.
7. Gave a gift card to another car in the drive-thru at Starbucks.



8-9. Left post-its on cars: "Drive safely!" "Wear your seatbelt!"
10. Placed wishing pennies by the fountain at the mall.



11. Taped enough change for a drink to the vending machine.



12-17. Stuck notes of encouragement and positivity in the ladies' restroom at the mall. "You are beautiful!" "That lipstick looks amazing on you!" "Nice outfit!" "Your hair looks great today!" "You can do this!"



18. Left a coupon for Bath & Body Works next to a fragrance display in the store.



19. Placed pennies heads up in the parking lot.
20. Purchased (and delivered) flowers for her mom.



21. Gave a tired looking mom at the grocery a gift card to Tim Horton's (the first tired looking mom said she didn't drink coffee...we are thinking she should re-think that!).
22. Returned a grocery cart back to the store.
23. Took two bags of groceries to a food pantry.



24-26. Took gloves, coloring books, and craft supplies to a women's shelter.



27. Left Oh, the Places You'll Go! at a bus stop...with the message, "Enjoy the journey."
28. Fed parking meters.



29. Dropped off some dog treats at a local animal shelter.



30. Sent a friend a note, just because.
31. Sent a photo memory to another friend.
32. Took cookies to work.
33. Bought coffee for a work meeting.

Inspired yet? Get in on the kindness act. Tell us about what you've done. Or what you long to do. Or what someone did for you!

A Dose of Humility

Here's the thing:

I drink too much coffee. I eat too many sweets.

I raise my voice at my kids, and on a daily basis, I think I've failed at parenting.

I worry about money, the future, and whether or not I'm really actually great at anything.

I second guess decisions.

I fight with my husband.

I let clean laundry sit in baskets for more than a week because putting it away is just another effing thing to do.

I watch far too much TV.

I enjoy Family Guy--and laugh too hard when I shouldn't--way too often.

I rehash events from the past in my head over and over again.

I complain too often, about things like laundry, and the price of day care, and how tired I am.

I feed Will hot dogs and macaroni and cheese minimum, once a week. Reid gets far less homemade baby fare than Will did.

And I feel guilty about all of it.

I switched to wine because beer made me feel bloated.

And maybe I drink too much of it.

I don't devour books anymore.

I curse like a truck driver--a kind one who still says "please" and "thank you"--but a mother effing truck driver.

And I don't care if it's unbecoming.

And sometimes I do it in front of my kids.

I let Will watch Madagascar, or Cars, or Curious George, just so I can do a load of laundry I'll never fold.

Or hide in the bathroom for five GD minutes to try and catch my breath.

I write blogs that I never post.

I text in my car, and not just at stop lights and parking spaces.

I flip through facebook on my iPhone while I feed my baby.

And as I sit here, with the travel channel on my TV (travel? Ha!) and my 3rd cup of coffee in hand, and the book "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" sitting off to the side, I can't help but take a big, heavy, load bearing sigh.

And be effing okay with every single one of those things.

And I share it all because I think you should be okay with it, too.

We're in a time when being happy and positive and present and pinterest perfect is trendy, and there are articles, and people, and blogs (ahem) that preach it. And tell you how to do it. And make you feel even worse if you just.can't.get.there.

And I just wanted to say, it's okay to be everything but those things.

Wallow in them, love them, embrace them.

Hallelujah for a little bit of humility.