Nemo

It's the last day of school over here, and while my classroom is ripe with the scents of Clorox cleaners, sweaty kids, and Sharpie markers as yearbooks are furiously passed around and signed, the sound that has filled the room is Finding Nemo.

One of my favorite Disney movies, it's what I chose for background noise this year--my sort of "You have to be quiet because someone might be trying to watch!" Namely, me.

And it wasn't until bell three that I realized the timeliness of showing this movie and my current emotional state.

About a month ago, Greg and I randomly chose to put our house back up for sale.

Daily vaccuming, dusting, scouring and toy-putting-awaying, and within a week we were sold, a far cry from our predicament last year.

We found ourselves excited about the potential of all that was available to us: do we go here or there? Build brand new or renovate an old farmhouse? Or something in between? Do we try a new area?

And then my questions got a bit more panicky: what about the schools? Will we ever find a gym like our current one? (I know, it's so silly--so silly--but it's our social hub, our kids love it, and I can't bare to part with it!) What if our new grocery store doesn't offer marinated sun dried tomatoes in an olive bar? What if we pick the wrong suburb? What if we pick a place and Will is bullied at that school but he wouldn't have been at the other one?

How can I possibly know that we are doing the right thing?!

And here's Finding Nemo: Marlin and Clara find the perfect anemone, and they love the neighborhood, and the next thing you know, a big fish ate all their babies.

I don't want a big fish to eat my babies! 

Why do I feel like someone might judge me for preferring manicured yards and pretty flower beds in the same suburb in which both Greg and I were raised?

Why is it not okay to love where you came from?

When I first started my yoga teacher training many years ago, and everyone was going around in a circle doing introductions and sharing things they loved, I shrunk a little with each answer given: I did not love kale, definitely not in smoothies; I didn't have a background in massage or fitness; I had never considered living on a commune; and I had no desire to even think about something called "vegan mayonnaise."

Instead, I sheepishly confessed that I shower twice a day and read People magazine and celebrity gossip websites and have an addiction to gummy bears.

That, really, is who I am.

It is that moment I come back to again and again to remind myself that it is more than okay to love where you came from.

To love who you are.

To be afraid of making "wrong" choices, when really it's not wrong so much as it is just difficult.

To embrace everything that makes you you, gummy bears and celebrity gossip, and manicured lawns, and hardwood floors, and plantation shutters, and flower beds full of tulips in the spring, impatiens in the summer, and mums in the fall, and PTA bake sales, and sending your kids to the same place you went to school.

Who is anyone to judge what we love, where we are comfortable?

So that's what Greg and I did: we embraced our roots, realized how much we love them, and we picked an amazing house that becomes ours in July.

And I keep the gym. And my olive bar marinated sun-dried tomatoes.

In the end, whether we made the "right" choice is irrelevant. "Right" is where our family is.

And a big fish can't eat us if we're together.

New Space

Y'all know I like to make lemonade out of lemons.

Our basement was like rotten squishy moldy lemons that may have even dried out.

In an effort to make our home more marketable, and to get a few toys out of the upstairs, Greg and I took on the task of finishing up a room in our basement. I told him it would only cost $150.

I went a little over (but not too terribly much--price breakdown at the end).

A little determination was all it took to get a fantastic new space (that, subsequently one day after finishing, my parents moved into).

Here's what we were dealing with in the "before" stage:

• painted concrete floors
• primed wood paneling covered in sticky tack (previous owner hung some of his hundreds of license plates on the walls)
• a hole in the paneling about the size of a dinner plate from when Greg checked a few years ago for a water leak
• mismatched crown molding and base trim
• seriously dirty stairs
• horrible lighting from two rickety, falling apart lights from 1982
• oh, and this room used to flood with heavy rains until we fixed the drainage issue two years ago

Dark, dirty, blah. And no daylight! We had our work cut out.

So, here's what we did:

• painted walls a fun robin's egg blue (cost: free--it was an unopened extra can of paint from a bedroom that I purchased four years ago; I just took it to Home Depot to have it shaken for free)
• put in four new can lights to make the room feel less like a dungeon basement (cost: $90--and labor was free; glad I married an engineer!)
• painted all the doors and trim, and the stairs, and added new door knobs to the two doors (cost: $61--$17 for trim paint and $14 for door hardware, $30 for porch and patio paint on the stairs)
• laid what is essentially a giant wall-to-wall area rug, with carpet off the big roll at Home Depot--no pad underneath, but soft enough for Reid to crawl around on (cost: $199. I won't go into the detail about how Greg and I laid that carpet down like a bunch of idiots who had never done home improvement before...but in our defense, the entire house is hardwood!)
• hung curtains to frame a mini "art gallery," which also conveniently covers that hole in the paneling (cost: $35 for curtains and hardware at Ikea)
• moved the upstairs play room down to the basement--all the cute furniture, easel, train table, art supplies, etc. (cost: free!)
• Total: $385

We have a few things left to do, namely hang the family guitars on the wall (Greg's idea) and move the cubby storage down there for the bins of toys (which are currently just under the train table). 

As I said before, we finished this project last Sunday, and my mom and stepdad moved in with us temporarily but indefinitely the next day. The futon is down there, and there is still tons of space for them and their three dogs, and Will and Reid to go down and play. Money well spent. 

My favorite part is the little art gallery--those curtains are so fun! It's such a cheery room now! 

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.