The Reach of a Teach

I like a teacher who gives you something to take home to think about besides homework. ~Lily Tomlin as "Edith Ann"

I had a hard time falling asleep the other night. This is unusual for me these days, but it was kind of nice. I used to do my best thinking before I fell asleep. These days, I guess I get by without doing much thinking.

Pregnancy is a nice excuse for being more scatter-brained than usual.

I laid there for awhile, thinking of things from my childhood. I started trying to remember all the teachers I'd had. I can only remember all of them through 6th grade. After that, when we began having multiple teachers and classrooms, I couldn't remember all of them. But, it took only the littlest things to help me remember some of the teachers woven through 13 years of schooling.

For example, I remember Mr. Pink, who one day donned a fake cape and "flew" around the room. He was usually so serious, so it really caught us by surprise. And, probably freaked us out a little. Had it not been for that, I don't think I'd remember.

There was Ms. Roche, my 6th grade teacher. She was energetic, young and fun. She wrote with her left hand and one day told me, while I was helping her with a project, that I was really good at cutting a straight line with scissors. Amazing how a good word can stay with you for 21 years.

I remember Mrs. Chan, who was the shortest teacher I think I ever had. She was Chinese but had such a solid American accent and she smiled a lot.

Stereotype much, Jen?

Mrs. Keyes was a bus driver. Because, really, how could you forget a bus driver named Mrs. Keyes?

Mrs. Calvert accused me of lying. She said I didn't complete a paper that I absolutely had. I was devastated. I even went to the principal to try and resolve it. I was mostly crippled by the accusation that I lied. Days later, she put on a sheepish grin as she waggled her finger for me to come over and then showed me the paper she had found.

In my memories, she was wearing a red business suit. Devil red.

My paper had fallen under some files in her cabinet. Situation resolved, but the pain never forgotten. She also read "I'll Love You Forever" to our class at the end of the school year, which forever tainted that book for me. Imagine a demon reading that story to you and you tell me if it leaves you with warm fuzzies.

Anyhow, the thought of a mom sneaking into her grown son's room to rock him in the middle of the night AND HE NEVER WAKES UP is just plan creepy no matter who reads the story to you. And the mom is near death by the end. What kind of children's bedtime story is that?!

I once had a substitute in 6th grade. I can't remember his name, but I remember him because after a girl accidentally passed gas, he told the class it was God's gift to be able to pass gas. And he was serious, too. I think.

Mr. Boone was my favorite princiPAL. I had him from 1st through half of 3rd grade. Before my dad was transferred to Virginia, on my last day of school, I stood in the school office. Mr. Boone knelt in front of me, place his hands on my shoulders, looked steadily into my eyes and told me to be a good girl. All of this as his eyes teared up. Something about his tenderness stayed with me all these years and I've longed to track him down and thank him. When I was much older, my dad told me that an angry ex-soldier threatened to hurt our family and that the strangers who were suddenly driving Scott and me to school everyday were actually armed to protect us. We had to move suddenly because of the threat and Mr. Boone was one of those watching out for our safety. So, now I see why Mr. Boone had been so intentional in his last remarks to me. Or maybe he was just that loving. Either way, I'll never forget those tender blue eyes filled with tears.

Then there was Mr. Born. Ninth grade biology. I did not retain a single lesson about biology, but we did make sandals out of yucca plants that year. We would trek out to a little stream way behind the school and beat those yucca leaves with rocks. Then, we'd sit out in a field and weave them into sandals.

Did I mention this was in Colorado?

We were very in touch with Mother Nature and yucca plants that year. But, I am proud to say we did not actually roll and/or smoke any yucca plants. Maybe that was saved for an upper level class. I am thankful to say I did not stick around another year to find out. We moved to Texas that summer, where I actually did learn some biology. Not enough to convince me to stay in Bio Medical Science my first year of college, but enough to help me pass the TAAS test so I could get to college and learn that a business degree was more suitable for the mind that wasted a year of high school making yucca plant sandals.

Incidentally, Mr. Born also built an enormous floor-to-ceiling bird enclosure in our classroom the year I was there. I believe it took up at least a quarter of the room. He stocked it with finch and quail, among many other breeds. I was curious to see if Mr. Born still had a job there so I checked the school website and, indeed, he is still there. I guess nothing ensures your job like building a gigantic aviary in the middle of a classroom. It's not as if you can pack that up neatly into a little cardboard box on your way out the door. I am amazed he even held his job through the bird flu epidemic.

Again, COLORADO...

Again, a stereotype.

Anyway, the point is, a lot of times what makes a teacher memorable is what they teach their kids outside the books. Sometimes I cut something out and find myself thinking of Ms. Roche and wishing I could remember her married name. Mr. Boone taught me that getting on a kid's eye level and telling them they are special will stay deeply tucked within their heart. They will even remember what clothes you were wearing and what your glasses looked like. Mr. Born gave me the gift of being able to fashion trendy footwear if I'm ever stranded in a desert. Too bad he didn't teach me that at 20% dehydration, a person dies. And, Mrs. Chan and I turned out to have a lot in common in the end, except for the Chinese part.

Finally, I don't know if she wears Prada, but I've witnessed firsthand that the devil loves books and she could still be teaching AP English somewhere. But not where I went to high school.

It would've taken a lot of yucca smoking to write all that if I knew she were in an hour's reach of me.

What Dreams May Come

The other night, I dreamed I was teaching some kids to swim when a lightning storm happened upon us very suddenly. I cleared the kids out of the water before anything happened, but watched in horror as they got back in the water. Why?! I don't know. They were kids. And, also, that is why it is called a nightmare. Somehow, I cleared the water again mere seconds before lightning struck the pool but I managed to do a lot of freaking out before I could convince them to get out.

We were safe until a lion began stalking us outside the pool fence. CLEARLY, we weren't in Texas anymore. We managed to run into some kind of dinky little shack with multiple rooms. Once again, I did a lot of freaking out before we could get there.

And, again, we were safe...until two panthers began hunting us down within the shack. And guess what I did a lot of...again.

Last night, I dreamed I was being chased by velociraptors and oviraptors. It was truly a scene from Jurassic Park, except no one was around to yell, "Cut!" when the scene was shot. Then, I was in a different dream where I had a "death scorpion" in my house and I had to kill it. Only it jumped around like a cricket and had a shell that was impossible to crush.

What in the world.

I do not like those "we were safe until" dreams. They do not leave me feeling like I got the good sleep.

I had some crazy dreams early in this pregnancy and I can handle absurd dreams. I want them back after that night of lightning, lions and panthers, oh my! Give me lunacy but don't give me death.

The first crazy dream I can remember is a ski trip gone awry. I mean, if vampires descending on your mountain-side cabin can be considered going awry. To me, it can. I had a cozy little rental and they would just ski right down into it. The only way to cure them was to plunge a syringe into their chest and extract purple fluid. You try doing that 114 times and see if you feel like hitting the bunny slopes anymore.

Another night, I dreamed I rode a small red carpet low over the ocean from my flat in the UK (?) to the village I visited in South Africa in January. I could use a flashlight to see some of the little friends we made. Why I was flying around at night is beyond me, but, it didn't seem to freak anyone else out too much. Because an Asian girl flying around on a carpet and checking you out in the middle of the night is totally normal.

Then there was the dream where I was pregnant and talking to neighbors when Baby E suddenly pointed and I could see a perfectly shaped baby finger poking up under my skin. It didn't penetrate my skin, but I could see every little detail of her finger. My dream was so vivid, I could even see that her fingernail was painted pink. Then I saw an entire fist emerge. It was like my skin was putty. All along, though, it was very normal to all involved. Just another friendly conversation with the neighbors while my fetus pumps a shout-out to the Black Panthers.

The militant ones, not the ones chasing me through a shack.

Anyway, it is scary what my brain cooks up when it thinks I'm not looking.

The upside is that every night has turned into an adventure. Brian has always teased me for having dreams that were much more elaborate than his. He can dream about a circle all night and that's it for him. Comparatively, my circle would have purple hair and be bouncing through hoops. On pregnancy hormones, though, that purple-haired circle would be me and I'd be eating Apple Jacks in skim milk while knitting a sweater with lime green yarn and giving Jeff Probst a high five on some deserted island where there are characters called The Others and The Smoke Monster. Only that is where it gets creepy again and I just want go back to my Apple Jacks. The only problem is, I'm a pregnant purple-haired circle whose only form of weaponry is knitting needles. I cannot wrestle The Others because skim milk does not bulk you up. I cannot seem to escape my pending doom. All I can do is run into shacks and hope all forms of wildlife, extinct dinosaurs and vampires stay outdoors.

Lucky for me, there's a good chance I still have that little flying carpet somewhere around here.

A Whole New World

At least four people asked me the other day if I'd gone out and bought pink.

Given that the news of our baby girl was less than 24 hours old, I had not. Plus, I figured I have nearly five months to stock up and money could be better spent elsewhere in the meantime.

I told Brian about it and he said I should go out and buy her first dress just for fun. He is so good about saying things like that and I was starting to warm up to the idea. Then a friend suggested I find something to bring her home from the hospital in and it was like that became my life mission.

At least for the day.

The sirens of all clothes pink began their sweet serenade, but I knew I wanted to maintain a level head about how much money to spend because we do have several consignment sales coming up. So, I casually headed to the nearest mall under the pretense that I was just browsing for some new maternity tops and, just maybe, I would have my first experience looking at girl clothes through the eyes of a girl mom-to-be.

I stopped in Motherhood Maternity before I made my way into baby Gap to "look at maternity clothes."

However, from the moment I stepped in, Gap's line of maternity clothes faded into the background and guess what heaven's light shone on instead.

Rows and rows of glorious PINK.

Ohhhh, the sirens can SANG!

Speaking of singing, I felt like Luther Vandross should've been singing the Hallelujah chorus as I walked into baby Gap. He would've done it all pepped up like he was so good at. I'm guessing maybe he is...in heaven...but I like to imagine him standing there in baby Gap greeting me with that song. Anyway, I guess Luther has been my companion through many emotional moments and I've just been feeling all EMOTIONAL since I found out about this girl.

And, apparently, my ability to stay on topic is also suffering from pregnancy given that I just devoted an entire paragraph to Luther in a post about girl clothes.

Anyway, I'm sure my eyes were bugging as I tried to take in all the cute outfits. I wanted to touch... Every. Single. One. Of. Them.

So now I can relate to my three year old when we walk through the toy aisle at Wal-mart. Nice.

I felt like I was floating as I held up little yellow sandals and oohed over their blue and white Porcelain collection. My eyes kept tearing up.

It was like Disney World on crack, except I was not listening to 300 animatronic children singing, "It's a Small World" in five languages while I was stuck on a boat going through a dark tunnel and there's really no chance I'm ever going to actually try crack.

I stopped at one rack where my eyes were drawn to one delicate ivory embroidered dress. It was so tiny and simple enough to be sweet. Here it is...(somebody cue Luther again)...

Oh, my breath was taken away and the tears started building.

Then again, maybe it was the $34.50 price tag that got me...

Holy cow, girls are not cheap!

Maybe I need to try crack after all. Selling it, I mean.

Moment of the Day

Last Thursday, Tyler had a rough day at school, to say the least. I guess when you're three and you really, really, really wanted to be the line leader, it makes sense to hit your teacher when you don't get the coveted role. He has NEVER done anything close to this, aside from hitting his brother. And I think that just comes with the territory.

Needless to say, Brian and I were mortified and each had extensive conversations with him about respecting our teachers and not using our hands to hurt people. So, this morning, when he made his return to school after a sick day Tuesday, he again got a stern warning from Daddy about respecting his teachers.

When Brian got home from work, Tyler ran shrieking from his bedroom, "Daddy! Daaaaaaddy! Daddy!" And, as he ran into Brian's arms, he proudly announced, "Daddy! I didn't hit my teacher today!"

We aim high here, folks.

Sick Day Snuggles

Day Three of The Cough.

But at least he's got a cute little friend to snuggle with.


And playing Playstation while wearing your cozy "feeties" doesn't hurt either.

The Slippery Slope I Just Ain't Ready to Tackle

Tyler just came crying to me, saying Noah had hurt his weiner.

So, I calmly called Noah over and explained that, not only is it not nice to hurt his brother, but it's especially dangerous to hurt his weiner. I thought I was rolling along as smoothly as possible, considering the topic.

Until he asked me the age-old question.

"Why?"

And the best I could come up with was, "Because he'll need it someday."

And then I prayed that would be the end of that.

Lord, have mercy.

An Aboriginal Nightmare

With the return of Amazing Race and American Idol, we have watched very little of the winter Olympics. We've seen snippets of downhill racing and we witnessed the end of the hockey game when the U.S. beat Canada (USA! USA!). However, trying to convince Brian to watch ice skating should be an Olympic event in itself.

After much wailing and gnashing of teeth on his part, I finally got him to watch some of the ice dancing.

It began well enough. Unfortunately, as soon as these two Russian skaters appeared on t.v., I knew my case was forever lost.

And then they did this.

This didn't help my case.

And this sealed the deal.