Your Next Adventure

Carter, I will never forget the feeling of dropping you off on your first long, solo hike. We hugged. I wanted to hang on a little longer than you did. No surprise there. You turned to walk into the woods and I turned away, both of us with brief hesitation. It’s not that I was afraid you couldn’t do it, it’s that I knew you would come back a different person apart from me. (Also, the bears. I am always afraid of the bears!)

I feel a little of the same emotions now as you get married.

You have always been one to figure it out for yourself. I don’t even know if I taught you how to tie your shoes. I know I have never helped you with one brick of the million lego you have put together. (I hope by now you have forgiven me for giving away the Millennium Falcon)Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever helped you with one homework assignment; well except for when you were 5 and you drew that detailed and intricate butterfly to go with your story and you kept erasing it because it wasn’t perfect. I tried to help you understand it didn’t need to be perfect, it was amazing the way it was. For the record, I did not succeed and you continued to stick with it until it was the way you wanted it to be. Then there was the time you taught yourself how to do a backflip in secret, without anyone to spot you. I know for sure I wasn’t the one to teach you to be the fantastic cook and baker that you are. I can’t leave out the endless miles you have hiked alone; facing god knows what. Frankly, I think the only thing I helped you with was buying and returning and buying and returning and buying and returning your clothes so you wouldn’t have to go to the store. So today, I do not think I will give you any relationship advice. I am confident, like everything else, you will figure it out. You have always had the grit and tenacity to figure things out.

You and Ann both bring those qualities to your marriage.

I am sure they will carry you through so much.

I know I am not sending you off on this new adventure alone, as you have your brilliant and beautiful bride, Ann.

But if I am being totally honest, I still want to hang on just a little longer.

Love,

Mom

Crying In Trader Joes (The White Woman’s Version of Crying in H-Mart)

We had been keeping vigil by my mom’s side since she came home from the hospital this final time. If we are being honest, we had been by her hospital bed for what feels like 1000 times. I do not know anyone who has endured more surgeries, more pain, or more “syndromes” than she had. She never complained; not once.

And she never quit fighting. In the almost 2 1/2 years since her pancreatic cancer diagnosis, she was in and out of the hospital for a myriad of things that should have taken her life. She came back from each one.

This time was different, and she knew it.

The day we moved her back from the hospital to her assisted living apartment, we found out that we had to abruptly move her to my sister’s home. What at first was a punch in the gut thrown by her assisted living place, turned into a blessing in disguise. ( I still will be writing a scathing letter to the management of a place that forces a dying woman to leave her home in her last days on this earth) So in the midst of the move, I headed to Trader Joes to get, as my mom would say, “snicky snacks” and wine (duh) since none of us had eaten anything that day.

As usual, the cashier cheerfully asked how I was.

“Fine,” I said. Then I quickly corrected myself and began to sob.

“I’m sorry. I am not Ok. My mom is dying.”

I then proceeded to tell this poor cashier how amazing my mom is and how hard she fought and that it’s really my mom’s fault that I am telling her all of this because my mom would talk to anyone in the grocery line about anything. Then she gave me a free bouquet of flowers. (Since then I have had another Crying in H-Mart moment and received a free sub. I may just head over to Tiffany’s next.)

We didn’t think my mom would make it through the night that Thursday, so I got in the car late Thursday night and headed to her apartment. My sisters and I sat by her bed, whispered our love to her, and held her hand. Miraculously she woke up for about 2 hours in the wee hours of the morning. She opened her eyes and when we asked what we could get her she said,” I think I would like some chocolate ice cream.” In those two hours, we were able to share memories and tell her again how grateful we were to have her as our mom. And, I was able to share the living eulogy I had written for her. I will be forever grateful that I was able to share this with her.

I read somewhere recently that you should write your own eulogy and read it daily.  It’s supposed to keep you on track for living the life you envision. Regardless, it got me thinking of you, mama.  What would I say at your funeral? And then I thought how absurd it is to wait until you are gone to say all the wonderful things about you and your one precious life. So, here is my attempt at your living eulogy.

Margaret Ann to her family, Maggie to her friends, mom to her children, and, most recently, mama to me. 

I cannot imagine being married at 19 and having a child at 20, but you did. And each time Daddy came home from deployment came another baby. 5 total.  5 humans you fed, burped, changed, read to, disciplined (famously, in the bathtub with a yardstick. And who could forget? Your flared nostrils could stop us in our tracks), and loved. You did all of that mostly single-handedly as the patriarchy was still alive and well in the ’50s and ’60s.

Mom, You nourished our bodies. 

You had a full, home-cooked, from scratch, hot meal on the dinner table every night. Fried chicken in white gravy, meatloaf, goulash,roast beef with mashed potatoes, stew with a side of pie crust; the list of favorites goes on and on.  I will conveniently overlook the tuna noodle casserole and creamed chip beef on toast.  (And how none of us have heart disease I will never know.) But still, every night! A home-cooked meal. Your amazing meals must be the only reason John does not resent having to sit on a stool at the counter while the rest of us were at the table. We are still trying to figure out why we didn’t just buy another chair. And cookies. The freshly baked cookies on the cooling rack on the kitchen table when we came home from school…peanut blossoms, a personal favorite, that now I know were the most time-consuming. Peeling those tiny foil-wrapped Hershey Kisses is why my own kids do not have this same memory. And birthdays.  You made each one of us feel like we were queens and a king on our birthdays; fondue, onion rings, and rainbow angel food cake. 

 Speaking of bodies, ours were always covered in wrinkle-free clothes. Oh my goodness the ironing. Even now I can picture you standing in front of the TV every night ironing endless shirts, pants, pillowcases, and handkerchiefs. Seriously mom? Handkerchiefs! How you had the energy to stand and iron for hours after dealing with the needs of 5 children I will never know.  Watching you do all of that taught us hard work and attention to detail, even if we did think you were crazy for doing it. And, you did all that while wrangling 5 children. WOW!  Just WOW!

Mama, you loved us by taking care of our bodies.

Mom, you nourished our minds.

I see every day the effects of homes that have not nourished the minds of their children. You provided us with a safe, secure home; the most important thing in a child’s life for brain development. If I can be so bold, all 5 of us are really smart.  You nurtured that. You modeled the love of reading and held us to high standards in school. You raised 5 lifelong learners; 5 adults who love to read ( however, none of us will ever reach your level of voraciousness) Oh yea, how could I forget?  I am sure having Jeopardy on every night didn’t hurt either. 

 Mama, you loved us by nurturing sound, smart minds.

Speaking of onion rings reminded me of church…

Mom, you nourished our souls.

We watched you walk the streets of Mill Creek Town helping to create a church from scratch. You modeled community, kindness, service, and friendship.  As a result, you raised the 5 of us to be kind, thoughtful, caring, generous, and (most of the time) other-centered. You brought strangers into our home who couldn’t speak English and had nowhere to go,(even on your anniversary-to Dad’s dismay) you tutored the students who didn’t have the privileges we did, and you were the woman at church and in our neighborhood who always saw a need and met it when she could. Just recently I learned you repeatedly drove to pick up a college friend’s laundry who had been in a terrible car accident and would drive it back when it was done.  Essentially, you were doing the laundry for 14 people as she had 5 children as well!  All of us are now people with souls that try to put goodness into the world because of how we watched you live.  

Mama. You were the constant in the stands as we performed and participated in our sports and activities.  We could always count on you being the loudest cheerer from the stands.  I am sure we had an eye roll or an embarrassed head shake then, but your constant encouragement and pride in us gave us all a solid foundation of esteem.

 Mama, you are leaving a  legacy of nourished souls.

I do not know how or why  I won the family lottery, but I did. You created that family. I have siblings who are my best friends, and I have a lifetime of memories of a happy home filled with love and laughter. You gave us that.  You taught us how to live well.  Even as you are nearing the end, you are teaching us still.  I will never know anyone who is stronger than you. 

I am forever grateful that you are my mama, and I am your daughter.

I love you, Mama,

Suz, Suzi, and Suzanne Margaret when I was being yelled at.

Then we sat by her side for another week. Watching the strongest women you know slowly leave this earth is both excruciating and beautiful. My siblings and I shared the responsibility of her care, and we laughed and cried late into the night when we should have been sleeping; moments I will treasure forever.

My jobs were demanding that I head back home. In hindsight, I think it was my mom nudging me to go. For years when I would visit her, she would say, “I think you should hit the road.” Lately, it would hurt my feelings a little bit, but I’ve come to realize she was just thinking of me and didn’t want to be a burden to me or to us. So for the last time, I held her hand, leaned close, and told her again what a privilege it was to be her daughter. I told her how I could never have endured what I have without her showing me how to be resilient. I whispered one last time that I just wanted her to be at peace and pain-free. Then I said, “Ok, mom. I am going to hit the road. I’ll text when I get home.”

She passed away 30 minutes after I arrived home.

I Got It From My Mama

I didn’t always call my mom mama. Somehow, for some reason, I started calling her that after she got sick. It just seemed to fit. Today is her 85th birthday. I didn’t think she would still be with us to celebrate this birthday, so I am grateful. But, watching her fight this stupid disease and suffer all the indignities it brings with it has been a grief I have never known in my 58 years.

Yet, she continues to show me how to do life even as she gets closer to the end of her’s.

One pandemic, virtual teaching, stress shopping trip I found this shirt, and this poem was born.

I am no Amanda Gorman, but I hope it honors my mama.

Tj Maxx for the win once again.

I’ve been told I am a natural leader

That I am also a voracious reader

And the tickets I have prove that I, too, am a speeder

Of course I am, I say,

I got it from my  Mama

Some have asked how I endure

How I work hard and always do more

How I keep going even when my joints are sore

I don’t know, I say,

I guess I got it from my Mama

I love to teach the underserved

The lost, the helpless, those below the curve

Most times I want to give people more than they deserve 

I’m not sure why, I say,

I must have gotten it from my mama

People ask how I survived as a  parent

I did it mostly by myself, that is apparent

It wasn’t always easy if I am being fully transparent

 I had the best role model, I say,

I got it from my mama

I wish I could say I don’t complain

Somehow I didn’t get that; I can’t explain

But there are so many more things that I did gain

To list them all would be insane.

The one thing I do know,

Is all the good that is in me

I got it from my mama

vir-tu-al-ly (nearly, almost) Impossible

When I started teaching some gazillion years ago, I cranked out (literally, you cranked a handle) copies on a mimeograph machine. I had the purple fingers to prove it. I taught so long ago, that I was one of the chosen few who had A computer in my classroom…an Apple IIe; the e was for enhanced in case you were wondering. It sat in the corner of my room like a shrine to the future of technology in the classroom. To be honest,  I was a bit afraid of it.  Cranking a handle I could do, but computers have always stressed me out. Maybe it was because I never recovered from  the trauma of taking a computer science class in college and dropping all the BASIC computer cards right before I needed to turn them in.  It was a dark time in my life. I would rather not revisit it. Who knows. Suffice it to say, I am no Steve Jobs. Technology has never been my forte.

Thanks Covid. Now my entire teaching  life is technology.

Teaching is now all…

Screencastify

and Loom

and Zoom

and Play Posit

and Flip Grid

and Pear Deck

and ClassLink

and Google Classroom

and Securely

and Schoology

 and I can even create a Bitmoji classroom.

But you know what I can’t do? I can’t shake hands every morning with my students.  I can’t look them in the eye and know how they are doing.  I won’t know who didn’t have a good night based on their body language.  I won’t be able to celebrate a win on the court or field from the night before.  I won’t know who needs a hug or be able to give them one.  No more high fives. No more almost getting knocked over by a particular student giving me a hug. ( I think I will  miss this the most) No more jokes in the hallway as students pass my room. No more spontaneous conversations about life. No more up close and personal interactions.

Virtual relationships are not the same.

And for me, teaching is all about the relationships.

Authentic, spontaneous, genuine, relationships.

Not the sterile, virtual kind.

 I can learn how to use Screencastify and Pear Deck. I hate Flip Grid, but I will use it. I will Loom and Zoom and Play Posit.  Maybe I will even figure out how to have a Bitmoji classroom. Who am I kidding? No I won’t.

But how am I going to build relationships with students virtually like I could when they were right there in front of me?

How will I build trust and create a safe place for them to land?

These are the questions that keep me up at night. Well that and the fact that I have gained enough Covid weight that now I snore and wake myself up every two hours.

But still.

I believe building relationships is more important than ever before for our students. Creating meaningful connections is the second pillar of creating a trauma informed classroom. You can read about the other 2 pillars Here . All of our students are coming to us having experienced the trauma of a pandemic. Some will have less of an impact than others, but all will have experienced  some negative effects.  More than ever, all students will need  a classroom that creates safety and strong connections.

The challenge is to do it virtually.

I do not have it all figured out yet. But one thing I know for sure is, as educators, we will make it happen.

But does it have to be with Flip Grid???

Also, if Mr. Rogers could do it then so can I.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Was That My Last Hug?

The last time I was here taking care of my mom we were staying in a lovely VRBO.  There was homemade chicken soup on the stove, yoga in the backyard, and basketball on the TV.

And hugs. Lots of hugs.

In a weird way, it felt a little like a vacation.  But, it wasn’t.  My mom, who barely weighs 100 pounds now, is fighting pancreatic cancer.  She had survived a 9-hour surgery, weeks in the hospital and rehab, and was about to begin chemo and radiation. But during that little stay, we were able to find some normalcy.  We shopped.  We went to lunch. We sat in Adirondack chairs with our faces towards the sun. And, we hugged.

 For a brief moment, it didn’t feel like cancer.

This time, I am here in a hotel room.  Last count, I am one of 7 here at the hotel. I’m a little like the grandparents in Willy Wonka, leaving the bed only to go to the bathroom. If I am not careful I may end up with bedsores. The bed has crumbs in it from all the junk  I have been devouring. Sweet then salty.  Sweet then salty. It is a vicious cycle that I do not have the will power or desire to escape. The nightstand is littered with disinfectant wipes, hand sanitizer, candy wrappers, old mugs of tea, and wine stains. My roommates are books and laptops. If it was under different circumstances, it would be this introvert’s dream.

Instead, it is my worst nightmare.

For the last week, I have left the hotel only once a day to go pick up my mom and take her to her radiation appt.  We sit in the car instead of a waiting room.  When the appointment is done, I drive her back home. I walk her up to the front door of her senior living community, and though I am desperate to hug her, I don’t; like I am some awkward teenage boy dropping off my date.

I can’t help but think, as I watch her walk away, will I ever get to hug her again?

This virus has robbed all of us of so many things.  But what I am grieving the most is the loss of my ability to care for my mom during her cancer battle; during, what is maybe, her last year with us.

This is a new level of helplessness. 

So I really don’t know what to say.  It all seems so inadequate.  It has all been said before.

We are in unprecedented times.

Stay home.  Wash your hands. Self-quarantine.

Do your part.

Please.

Because she needs to feel the sun on her face once more.

Because I need to hug my mom again.

 

 

What Is In Your Cart?

I was exhausted. Managing classrooms full of anxious, stressed out students is draining. But I had survived teaching on Friday the 13th amidst the coronavirus chaos, and now I was racing to the grocery store to prepare for this quarantine.  I was like, “Yea! No school for two weeks! I can finally get my house in order, evict the last remaining squirrel, put much needed time into my other job, sleep in, and most importantly…READ A DAMN BOOK FOR PLEASURE!” I innocently walked into the store and leisurely strolled the aisles.  I patiently picked the produce; lettuce mixes for salads and every veggie known to man. Except brussel sprouts. They smell bad, and I fail every time I try to cook them.  And do not at me with your perfect, delicious recipe for them because I have closed the door on  them forever.  I poured over the labels on which salad dressing I would get. This one or that one? Oh, what the heck get them both. I spent a ridicules amount of time in the cheese aisle. I found a new frozen french fry to try, because everyone knows you cannot be quarantined with out french fries.Then it was  on to the wine aisle where I read more labels to find the right blend to go with my london broil that I will not be serving with roasted brussel sprouts.

Then I turned the corner and saw one of my students.

At first I was excited. “Hey! So fun seeing you here.” I wanted to ask a million questions.  ” Are these your brothers? Is that your dad?  Do you live near here? Did you charge your Chromebook?” (kidding about the Chromebook)

But I was suddenly overcome by shame and embarrassment.  And it was obvious to me, so was he.

Me, because I instantly took notice of the contents in his cart.

Him, because he took notice of mine.

Ramen. Chef Boyardee. Peanut butter. The end.

And my privilege stopped me dead in my tracks. I know the reality of the majority of my students.  I know they live in poverty. But today I felt my privilege like I haven’t felt it before.

All I could think of at 4:10 this afternoon was, “Thank god I get a break from this crazy, stressful job!”

And at 5:10 all I could think about was my student’s food scarcity.

I know poverty and poor nutrition go hand and hand.  And do not get me started on what we are feeding our kids in schools. I mean where is Michelle Obama when I need her? I stood in that line and debated.  Should I pay for their ramen? Should I fill a cart of healthy food for them? In the end, I went with my gut that said to spare his dignity.

I felt helpless when I left.

For so many of my students school is their safe place. They know they will eat two meals and the ever anticipated snack. They complain about the food, but they are not hungry. And now they face at least two weeks of uncertainty. I thought about flying drones over their complex and air dropping food into their neighborhood.  Should I stake a claim at their local 7-11 and pay for their Takis and what ever else they want? Could I mail them hot fries and apples? Obviously none of my initial ideas were rational.

So what can those of us who do not experience food scarcity do to help those who do? The following links are realistic ways you and I can ensure  our students have enough food to get through this difficult time.

We Are VB is an excellent program that gets food to those in our community that are in need.  Here is the link We Are VB

VBCPS accepts donations to fill their Beach Bag program.  Here is the link Beach Bags

Food pantries will need donations. Here is a link to donation information.Food Pantry donations

Stay safe. Wash your hands.  And next time you are casually filling your grocery cart with what ever you want, remember there are many who do not have that privilege. So please, do what you can.

Also, tell me again why everyone is stocking up on toilet paper?

Today I realized My Dad’s Legacy

re·sil·ience

/rəˈzilyəns/

noun

1. 1.
2. the capacity to recover quickly from difficulties; toughness.

 

Today marks the 30th anniversary of my Dad’s death. 30 years.

30 years without his presence in my life.

30 years without.

No hugs.

No I’m proud of yous.

No answers and advice.

30 years of not hearing my Dad say, “I love you.”

 30 years without dad jokes… and his were actually pretty damn funny.

I could tell you about a certain Shop Vac joke, but it’s rated PG and I wouldn’t want to offend. But 30 year later, I still laugh whenever I think of that moment.

Today I sat in a conference on childhood trauma and resilience. Dr. Nadine Burke Harris (take a minute to watch her TED Talk) believes it is our nation’s biggest health crisis. It is the root of most disease and dysfunction. And, I agree with  her. I see it everyday in my classroom, and I lived it with my own children. The negative effects of Adverse Childhood Experiences and toxic stress are vast and can be devastating.

Can be.

My brother  recently sent me a card that my grandfather gave to my dad on his wedding day.  My grandfather’s words were a reminder that my dad had his own set of Adverse Childhood Experiences. He lost his mom at a very early age to cancer.  He was raised by, what I considered, a cold step mother and a demanding father who didn’t give much love or affection, if any.

I sat in that conference today and thought about how I won the parent lottery. I have an ACE score of 0.  My parents were not perfect, but I was raised in a loving, stable home with parents that supported me, disciplined me in love, (except for the bathtub incident when my mom hit me with a yard stick. I now believe she was in menopause and I totally understand her actions.) and provided me with every opportunity to succeed.

I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before, but today it became clear to me that my dad left my boys and me a legacy of resilience.

He had a high ACE score, and so do my sons.

But they each have, and had, an incredible amount of resilience.

I was reminded again today that children who have experienced trauma don’t have to be defined by their adversity. If one, stable, caring adult can step into their lives,  show them their strengths, believe in them, build a relationship with them, and be a buffer to their trauma, they too can build resilience.

I want to be that one person.

After all, my Dad showed me how.

 

 

Hope for me

Pretty much what I look like if I were a man

“You look tired!”

Literally, the first words out of his mouth when I went to hug him after driving 5 hours on no sleep cuz my house is torn apart from a sewer line mishap… yes I said sewer…and the mold caused me to have an allergic reaction from hell.

I am tired.

The circles under my eyes have circles. Like some miniature version of a bulls eye on my face; complete with my red eyes as the center.

But I drove those 5 hours to VT to see him compete in his gymnastics meet.

I drove 5 hours to watch my son tumble for 1 minute.

And then I got in the car and drove 3 hours to see my oldest play on the band’s biggest stage yet.

And while I was driving I called my remaining son but he was with his friends and couldn’t talk.

And I couldn’t have been happier

Except I’m not.

I’m tired.

And I have a busted foot and a busted back and a busted house.

And I keep thinking, “This was supposed to get easier.”

And I know these are all first world problems. Especially since people in California have lost everything in the wildfires.

But still.

I’m struggling.

I didn’t get my usual collapse and recover time after my summer.

I went right to the classroom after 27 years.

And I don’t know if you guys know this or not, but teaching is exhausting.

And how teachers with young kids do it is beyond me.

When I get home it’s all I can do to crawl to my bed ( which is quite a sight considering I’m lugging a suitcase full of teacher work and trying not to spill my wine on my way up)

And juggling three jobs has me a bit overwhelmed.

Well, a lot.

I’m whining I know.

I’ve been running on adrenaline since I started back to the classroom and now I’m hitting the wall. (Or should I say ceiling; cuz my ceiling caving in seems to have been the tipping point for me.)

I was misty eyed ( allergic reaction aside) all day with my kids.

I was thinking back to all our days of struggle.

I couldn’t picture a future for my youngest, and I’m sure he couldn’t either. But here I was in his future and he’s thriving.

Competing and succeeding.

And my oldest. On stage doing what he loves. The music was great, but the best was seeing him having so much fun.

And if you had told me one day my other son couldn’t talk to me because he was with friends (notice the plural) I would have never have believed it.

And neither would he.

When you are in the depths of struggle, their is no light shining on the future.

You simply can’t see it.

All you see is the struggle. The tired and the hard.

The day with my boys was a reminder that the future is there.

And it can be bright.

And I just need to keep moving forward; just like my kids have done.

Seeing my kids do their thing and thriving gave me hope.

Hope for me.

I’m not always going to be this tired and haggard looking… oh who am I kidding? Yes I will. But I’ll thrive again. One day I’ll do my version of a perfect front tuck walkout round off back handspring back tuck. And one day I’ll kill it on stage. Maybe even one day I’ll be too busy with my friends to talk to my mom…yea, nope. That’s not ever gonna happen. (cuz tired introvert.)

I thought I was sacrificing my sleep and my free time to support my kids and remind them I’m always cheering them on and always proud of their talents and hard work.

Turns out I needed this day to remind me that after this struggle, I’ll thrive again too.

And so will you and yours.

Maybe I Just Like Ice Cream

Sometimes the simplest things can take you back in time.  Today I saw a sign advertising McDonald’s ice cream cones.

 I was instantly back in the drive thru with Cameron getting our 576th cone.

It was back in a time when my metabolism didn’t hate me and when getting ice cream with my kids was all I could muster in the form of being the fun mom.

I asked him if he remembered all the times we would get cones in the drive thru.

“Do you remember, Cameron?”

A slight grin started to crawl across his face. ” Of course I do,” he said, as the grin became a full smile.

“Do you think we were eating our feelings back then?”

There was a long pause and I braced myself for his deep, emotional, and heart-felt response.

“No, I think I just liked ice cream,” he flatly replied.

Laughter.  It has always gotten us through.

I recovered from the laugh  and muttered,”Well I sure as hell was. So I guess it was a win- win!”

“Want to go one last time before you go back to school? I may have some more feelings to eat.”

But this time they are happy feelings.

This time I am not feeling a giant knot in my stomach as I send him and his brother off to college.  This time I have not vacuumed my bedroom floor in anticipation of being in the fetal position once they are gone. This time I have not cried secret tears when they weren’t looking.

Nope, this time I am excited. (and not just because I get my clean house back)

You see, now I know it’s where they are thriving. Now I know it’s exactly where they should be. (Now I know they will actually wash their sheets more than once a semester ) And now my fears of,  will they succeed?  are behind me.  My worry for their safety and happiness has diminished. (Of course, all parents know that worry will never completely go away) This time I am not feeling a huge loss. This time I have a grateful heart that they  have found their place; and I can’t wait for them to get back to it.

BUT…

Although I feel happy and thankful, I can’t help but wait for the next crisis; the next hurdle to overcome. I can  never seem to  stay in the happy moments. Maybe you experience it too.

Brené Brown writes about a condition called Foreboding Joy – and I am it’s poster child

She writes:

“…I’d argue that joy is probably the most difficult emotion to really feel…In a culture of deep scarcity—of never feeling safe, certain, and sure enough—joy can feel like a setup…We’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

After all the bad my boys and I have experienced, I find it  hard to enjoy the good. I am always waiting for the next bad thing to happen.

According to Brené this is what Foreboding Joy looks like:

“Works going great. My relationship with my partner is good. My kids are healthy and happy.  Holy crap! Something bad is going to happen.”

And that is exactly what it is like for me.

I rarely allow myself to feel joy because I have to brace myself for the next hard thing that is going to happen.

Most of us have experienced foreboding joy, but those that have experienced loss or trauma, or serious illness are exceptionally vulnerable to it.   Brené Brown gives this example of foreboding joy:

“Have you ever been  staring at your precious child while they sleep and thought,  I couldn’t love this child anymore.”? You feel such joy!  Then in the next moment you  fear the worst. You think, “What would I do if something happened to them?” That happy moment of love and peace evaporates in an instant.

Foreboding Joy.

When you have experienced the worst, you are always bracing yourself for what is coming next. You can’t help but think, “It came for me once, it is surly coming for me again.” It takes practice and hard work to allow yourself to stay in the joy and the happy.

 This time, as my boys go off for their senior year of college, I may actually be allowing myself to feel grateful and joyful a little longer than I usually do.

 I am doing my best to not let the foreboding joy rob me of my moment of happiness and peace.

But don’t be surprised if  you see me today in the drive thru of McDonald’s with an Ice cream cone, or two, in my hand.

Look, I am trying. Baby steps. Baby steps.

Dear Teachers, I Am Sorry

Dear Teachers,

I owe you an apology.  I may have miscommunicated what I was trying to say in my last blog.  I am guessing that is what happened. I heard from parents with struggling kids. I heard from friends that discovered their high ACE scores may be the missing piece to their health puzzle. I heard from others that just thought it was some good, new information. Even Oprah is talking about trauma sensitive schools now. See what she says here But I didn’t hear from any teachers.  Well, one.

I was confused.

My words were not meant to say it is the teachers’ fault that there are school shootings or  that it is your sole responsibility to fix these children.

It was not my intent to make you feel like you are responsible for one more thing. Lord knows you are burdened with enough to do in a day.

I was not trying to say teachers need to be mental health care providers along with everything else you are required to do.

So I am sorry if I made you feel like this was your fault.

But I do think teachers can be a big part of the solution. For many students, a teacher is the only adult in their world who can provide a safe and predictable relationship.

Many of you reposted the Teacher Of The Year’s post that went viral.  And I agree with a lot of what she said.

Read post here

But that was my point exactly…it is because of the family situation that many of these kids have such high ACEs Read about ACEs here.  The family is failing in most of these kids’ lives who are causing the biggest discipline issues.  If the parents stepped up, the ACEs would be lower in the first place.

But if I may, let me tell you a story…

Years ago, my family was failing.

And my kids’ ACEs score was climbing. 4 to be exact.

But I wasn’t educated in the brain science of toxic stress and my parenting style, that had always worked in the past, was making matters worse.

I knew my son was struggling with anxiety. Stomach aches, head aches,  a racing pulse, and panic attacks were becoming a daily occurrence; and the intensity was increasing drastically in spite of all my son and I were doing to try to calm it. The anxiety was  becoming debilitating.  I was doing all I knew to do. I read books on anxiety. I provided a diet and supplements that supported a calm nervous system. We tried medication; some of which made everything worse. I found him professional help. (which is no small feat navigating the mental health system) I hired a yoga instructor. I was desperate to find help and get my happy, healthy child back.

 Even though I was in my own crisis and chaos, I at least had the education and means to find him help. Even with the resources available to me, It was still a struggle and one of the hardest things I have had to face.  So, think of all those parents that don’t have the resources or the wherewithal  to get help. How much harder must it be for them to advocate for their children; how much harder for them to “step up”.

I was trying to be the parent to, as the viral post stated, “step up”

But my parenting was making it worse.

In the beginning I was all like “get up off the floor and go to school” ” I am not going to be manipulated by this” ” Hey I don’t feel like going to work either but I have to, so you can go to school”

And the teachers were the same.

“He’s being lazy”  “He’s not doing his work” ” He’s smart, but doesn’t care” “How can he learn if he doesn’t show up” “It’s your job to get him to school”

But his brain was malfunctioning.  He was drowning in stress hormones and physically couldn’t do school things.

He could not operate out of his thinking brain when his emergency brain was in overdrive.

I was demanding he do things he physically couldn’t do; and his teachers were doing the same.

And it only compounded the anxiety.

It wasn’t until I discovered the science of toxic stress on the brain that things turned around.  And though It went against my normal parenting expectations of work hard, don’t slack, and fight through hard things, our days became about all things calm – yoga, rest, and more rest. The priority was about removing triggers and healing his brain.  His teachers thought I was enabling, helicoptering, and making excuses for his “laziness”.  Some days I thought the same about myself. But in my gut I knew this was the right thing to do.

If he had strep throat or pneumonia I wouldn’t demand that he ” fight through it” I would give him all the things that would make him well.

If I only knew then what I know now.

If his teachers only knew what was going on in our home and what that stress  was doing to his brain.

 That is all I was suggesting in my last post.

That teachers look at students through a trauma sensitive lens.

Have high expectations in an environment of high support.

It is the connection of a teacher that can make a difference. Oprah says her teachers were the difference in overcoming the effects of her high ACEs. It doesn’t take much.  It is really just about building safe, secure and consistent relationships with students.  It is about looking at what may be behind the behaviors; not the just the behavior itself.

My friend gets it. She posted this the other day.

“I care more about loving them than I do about teaching English, but along the way they learn more than I thought possible”

And that is what a trauma sensitive lens looks like. And it is science. Research shows us that students learn, have higher test scores, and have better classroom behavior when they are in a classroom that is safe, nurturing, and relational. In other words, an environment that understands the science of trauma on a child’s brain.

I remember what it was like when I taught in a Title 1 school. I know there are kids that are “out of control” in your classroom and you don’t get the support you need from parents. I know teaching is demanding and draining and that many times you are expected to do the work of 10 people.  But I also know that you have the potential to change a struggling students life with your connection. Maybe even the next Oprah.

I am thrilled to say that today my boy is doing fine in college. (and he is anything but lazy.) I’ll be honest, I never thought this day would come. It breaks my heart to think back on those days and how we struggled. I often wonder how different the outcome might have been had one of his teachers  understood the science of trauma and toxic stress, and instead of asking him “What is wrong with you?” had simply asked “What has happened to you?”

That is all I was trying to say.

Most teachers didn’t’ go into teaching to hold a gun. They got into teaching to hold hands and hearts and minds.

And, of course, to have summers off.

“No significant learning occurs without a significant relationship” -James Comer