Never did I imagine I’d be wary of spring break. I’ve been counting down the days, but it isn’t the same. I’m tired but not in the way I’m normally tired. It’s a stuck sort of tired. Tired of being stuck in the unknown, having to roll with whatever comes our way, like it or not. Weary and wary.
Sure, that’s how life usually happens, but there’s this heavy lull. I look on the bright side, at least I like to believe I try. I’m an apathetic teen who isn’t in the mood to do anything, but wants something to do. I’m looking forward to the break, but I’m not, because breaks have been anything but breaks. I want to go places, but I also want to sleep in.
I only have a week and I don’t know whether or not I want to look forward to it. I’m skeptical and working on optimism. One more day. I can make it one more day. Then I’ll wait to see what happens. Take one day at a time. An hour at a time. Still.
I’m nervous. We have one of those busy-ish evenings. Prescription glasses are ready to be picked up before the office closes for the day, but they need to be picked up today for tonight’s orchestra concert. The concert doesn’t begin until 8:00 tonight. Between the glasses, dinner, travel time, getting ready, and arriving on time, it’s takeout night.
Usually it’s a treat. Lately, it’s been a disaster. It happens when I’m hangry. There are days when I skip breakfast, pack a sad little lunch, stay late for a staff meeting, and I’m ravenous when I get home. Takeout sounds like a great idea. I place my order. Everyone else makes their requests and off they go to retrieve the goods. I’m guzzling water to fill me up because if I start snacking to hold me over, I’ll eat too much.
Staying home to get started on household duties that pile up during my day’s absence, my husband volunteers to pick up our order. One night, I order a fancy salad and add a chicken breast for a more filling, yet light dinner. We unpack our food. The chicken is missing. I check the receipt. Sure enough, not ordered. I calm myself down using the strategies we use with kindergartners because I’m about to flat out wail. I find a chunk of chicken in the fridge, add it to my fancy salad, and devour my meal.
On another occasion, I order a burger from one of our favorite burger joint. We have ingredients for burgers, but we have to thaw meat. We’re not feeling the cooking tonight. The restaurant is less than ten minutes from our home. Picky eaters beget odd orders, especially for burgers. I order mine with mustard, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, no onions, add cheese and go ahead and add fries. I’m splurging today. We order with time to get it home in less than half an hour. No need for extra water or snacks.
However, it’s already 6:30. We ordered at 6:00. We should be eating by now. 7:00. Nothing. Hmmm…I message my husband. No response. 7:30. No food, voicemail kicks on. I could’ve already defrosted the meat, made the patties, cooked them, peeled the potatoes and made home-fries. I start snacking, just a little. He’ll be here any minute. 8:00. Another call, still no answer. I’m getting a little worried. 8:20. The delivery arrives, finally. There was a wreck. Okay, I get it, but it was that bad? I didn’t even hear sirens.
We unpack our food. Order number one: burger, plain, with fries. Check. Order number two: chicken sandwich, no pickles, no mayo, fries on the side. Check. Order number three: burger, everything on it, add jalapeños and an order of chilli cheese fries. Check. I’m salivating by now. My stomach rumbles. I can eat through the wrappers. Order number four: burger, dry, lettuce. Fries are missing. That’s it. Forget calming strategies, I implode.
Here I am an adult mom modeling behavior about how to handle not getting her way. “You will go back and get the right order, I’m so tired of this!” I put the brakes on though. Positive energy in (inhale), negative energy out (exhale). Check the receipt. All of the orders were correct. Of course. I went to the fridge, retrieved a block of cheese, found the mustard, and reassembled my burger after I reheating it. My kids share their fries. Two fries from each of them. After I chomped down my dinner, I asked why it took so long.
The burgers were ordered at the location 30 miles away. The wreck was in that direction, nowhere close to where we live. During rush hour.
Let’s order a family pack of tacos and add on the flautas. It’s Chuy’s night this week. Last time we had plenty of food plus extra for decent leftovers. Six taco shells, meat, rice, beans, queso, chips, plenty of jalapeño ranch, salsa, a dozen flautas…I’ll make my own margaritas. This is a great deal and we don’t have to special order anything other than adding the flautas.
Once again, hangry. We order. We unpack our food. Five taco shells instead of six. No flautas. Check the receipt. It’s correct, but we didn’t get our flautas. My husband calls, sorts out the order and goes back for them. I’m on my second margarita. I start with the chips and jalapeño ranch. I stuff myself until the flautas arrive. We serve ourselves cold tacos and warm flautas.
It’s takeout tonight. Again. Check everything before you leave. Unpack all of the food in the car. Check the receipt.
I’m waiting. We had a staff meeting today. Two more hours until the concert starts. I had a sad little lunch. My stomach rumbles.
Years ago I found a book (or maybe the book found me) called Whatcha Mean What’s a ‘Zine? I don’t remember where I found it, but it looked interesting so I bought it. Well, hello, this was the best purchase I had made to inspire kids to write in my classroom. I shared it with my teaching bestie and we came up with a plan. After we both read it and started using them in the classroom, we presented a professional development session for secondary teachers in our district. I was hooked and the kids loved them. This was back in the day when foldables were all the rage.
If you aren’t familiar with ‘zines, they are small, self-published mini-books, or tiny magazines, on any topic. They’ve been compared to flyers or pamphlets that were used way before printing and buying magazines was the norm. Think Ben Franklin’s pamphlets. We liked using these and the students responded well because they’re small and less intimidating than writing on full sized sheets of paper. We had students use them for note-taking, free writing, mini-graphic novels for those who wanted to give it a try, publishing their personal narratives, and even for a variety of responses to reading. In our PD session, our handouts were two separate ‘zines that participants folded with us. They were a hit.
As COVID made its entrance, I became restless. Connecting with my friends on social media was great, but I wanted something different. I wanted connection with snail mail. I posted an invitation for friends to DM their snail mail addresses so I could send them a little something. Unexpected snail mail from a real person is a treat, at least it is for me. Close friends and family whose addresses I already had were default recipients. However, I wanted to reach out to those farther out of my everyday circle: new colleagues, old high school friends, new friends.
I planned to mail a quick note to say hello and sticker bomb the outside of the envelopes because as a true child of the ’80s, I’m a sucker for fun stickers. Then I got an idea. I’d make a ‘zine. I knew everyone was going through tough times adjusting. I’m not a naturally optimistic person, so I decided to make a Little ‘Zine of Happiness and send some happy mail. I created my first (and so far, only) ‘zine that isn’t classroom related.
After I made the original ‘zine, I unfolded it, scanned it, and printed copies. Assembling them was therapeutic. I bought stationery, collected addresses and sent them out. I used all the Christmas stamps I had since I didn’t get around to sending cards, a delayed little gift. I didn’t send them all at once. I’d send out two or three, wait a few days and then send a few more. I made sure to tuck in the little ‘zine.
I received delightful messages from recipients, some of whom snail mailed me back. Many told me it arrived at the perfect time and put smiles on their faces. I left a blank on the cover for personalization. My ‘zinester teacher colleague, now an instructional coach, passed them out to her teachers earlier this year to lift their spirits. That was my intention, to spread joy during a tough time.
More topics roll around in my head for new ‘zines. I even created an Instagram account for people to share there, but it’s quiet right now. I plan to make more, but following through has waned. I’m sure inspiration will visit soon. Feel free to get your copy here and share some happiness.
*This is sometimes referred to as a “smoosh book” or an 8-page book. No fancy tools required. Not even scissors, unless you want a clean line. Video directions for folding are here.
Oh, hi Monday. Again. It was the weekend. I should’ve been winding down Saturday evening, but from what? I read and wrote most of the day. I attempted to clean out the closet under the stairs. Emptied it out on this great quest for minimalism, but I’m not feeling the adventure. I want to crawl into my hobbit hole of stuff, keep it, and have second dinner. Or maybe it’s second and third clutter. Of books, notes, real snail mail addressed to me, little bits of golden word nuggets scrawled on bits of paper that don’t quite have a place to fit–yet. They’re looking for the piece that needs them: a story, a song, a bit of advice, a letter, maybe a list. I tossed a few things, but moved everything back in. I’ll save it for later, and wait for a wizard to show up.
This is the cover of the copy I checked out to read as a sixth grader. The covers have been updated, but this is my favorite.
Are you there Judy? It’s me, Ally. And I read your popular book about the girl who talked to God. It helped me because my mom wasn’t the type who talked about what to expect in my changing body. Nana certainly didn’t help either. I got bad information from friends and embarrassing information from films at school. How I imagined a perfect puberty through your book didn’t quite happen the way you described. Hell, even Meggie from The Thorn Birds (Mom’s favorite mini-series) got advice from Father de Bricassart.
Me? Nothing. No one helped me. I had to figure stuff out on my own and this one, one of the most concrete and visible manifestations of puberty was all mine to figure out. As I muddled my way through, learning the ins and outs, I helped my two younger sisters. They didn’t read your book, but they had me to help as much as an older sister would help.
It hit again, on a much larger scale. This, with the advent of technology where information was at my fingertips, but way before the blogosphere was a thing, I became a mother. Round two, here we go again. There were books I didn’t have time to read, A Baby Story on TLC (or was it Discovery?) was the closest thing I had to pregnancy, childbirth, and the fourth trimester. My lamaze class helped a little, but it was NOTHING like going through it.
No one warned me my pre-pregnancy clothes would. Not. Fit. At. All. No one said I’d rip, or there would be stitches. Or adult diapers. No one mentioned having to take a squirt bottle full of warm water to every bathroom visit only to wish U.S. toilets were equipped with bidets. No one mentioned nursing was a whole new level of hell (shoutout to the mammas that make it work), how my body felt like mush, and how I felt that I floated outside of my body in a zombified daze for three weeks.
There were no mommy IRL Instagram accounts, no FB support groups, and my mom wasn’t up to speed on new child rearing trends like nursing in public, co-sleeping, and putting babies to sleep on their backs only because they can freakin’ die if they sleep on their stomachs. Which is exactly the only way my son would sleep. Period. Because he came out hollering at me and he rarely slept. When he did sleep, I panicked because I thought he was dead. “Sleep when the baby sleeps” was the stupidest first time mom advice I ever received.
After my daughter was born, it was a little easier because I knew what to expect and immediately decided nursing wasn’t a good fit for my personality. Dehydrated DH3 enriched powdered cow’s milk all the way, baby! This kid slept. On her stomach, because to hell with those motherhood trends. Do what works.
We parent our kids the best we can. There are milestones, family trips, and birthdays.
The birthday.
The 40th one.
Hey, Judy, I’m in ‘tweenhood again. How did Margaret handle puberty 2.0, the sequel, the second part? I know about menopause, but there’s this ‘tween stage to prep the body for it and it’s called perimenopause. God forbid women be strong enough to hit it head-on. Weight gain that does. Not. Come. Off. No matter how little you eat or how hard you exercise, it won’t budge. The kids sleep now, too much, but insomnia is the wicked little step-sibling that likes to wail at 3:00 a.m. Smothering it with a pillow doesn’t work. After those films in middle school, the teachers nonchalantly told us we’d outgrow the acne. They lied. Popping a puberty zit isn’t the same as trying to deal with that nasty hormonal stress acne that likes to hang out on my jawline.
Judy, you didn’t warn me about this one. Did Margaret stop talking to God?
Yesterday was hard. Not the writing kind of hard, but the I can’t stop reading all of the good posts sort of hard. The I have to go to bed now because there’s work tomorrow morning sort of hard. People keep saying such inspiring words my brain is about to pop hard. I have to come up for air. So many ideas. So many resources. So many talented and hard working (because it isn’t only talent) writers out there. Whew! I’m up for physical challenges-within reason. I’ve done some. I’ve gone through momming while teaching and managing grad school kind of challenge. But this? What is this? This is challenging too, but I have no words to name it. I’ll just ride the wave. Dang!
“…the people who give you their food, give you their heart.”
César Chávez
Jalapeño Jack cheese served with HEB In House Roasted Turkey
I looked at my sad little lunch today. I’m grateful to have something to eat, but it’s the time of the week where the fridge has been emptied of unsafe to eat leftovers. That, and I didn’t feel like eating chicken. Plus I was running late (again) this morning so it was one of those open the lunch bag in front of the fridge and sweep in whatever fits. I wound up with a single serve square of jalapeño jack cheese, a new package of roasted turkey breast that thankfully didn’t smell funny, a coleslaw mix with dressing, a tub of almond butter, and an apple that’s been in there for a week.
I miss lunches that aren’t spent solo in my office with a webinar running on my computer and I especially miss the lunches with my colleagues at my former campus. That’s where we collaborated, vent our frustrations, laughed until we needed antacid, burned popcorn, and pretty much had a buffet every day.
Some of us, moms with young children, wound up with a snack pack of Goldfish crackers, applesauce, a juice box, and a half empty pack of fruit snacks from a diaper bag or from underneath the seat of the car. Exhausted teacher moms, we often ran out of time to pack something decent for ourselves. Our lunch time became sacred because the teacher moms with older kids brought leftovers. Some were empty nesters who cooked too much, some had events over the weekend like engagement parties for an adult child or get togethers with their high school kids’ sports teams. It never failed, when we had our baby lunches, someone always came through with plenty of food.
Then there’s Liz, who introduced me to Asian fusion, the best steak, roasted Brussels sprouts, and countless other menu items from restaurants I’d never visit with two kids in tow. Every time I had a sad little lunch, Liz showed up with takeout bags and containers from fancy restaurants. Some days I cried happy tears because I was so hungry (sad little lunches usually accompany non-existent breakfasts) and we cheered as if we’d landed a rover on Mars.
Conversations centered around cupcakes, parenting, play-by-play Game of Thrones commentaries, good music, bad music, discussing an impromptu happy hour, a recap on emails we accidentally or purposely deleted, who was first to finish all of the STAAR training modules, vacation suggestions…
We ate until students started showing up, peeking in to see what they missed. “Is that burned popcorn? I smell burned popcorn! Do you smell burned popcorn?”
“Come on in, kiddo. How was that blue slushie you had with your lunch?”
I think we’re spending too many movie nights together. Over the years, I stopped watching TV in favor of trying to finish reading social media posts. That’s how I read them, as if I’ll get to the end. When I get tired of that, I read books, magazines, junk mail. A few years ago, after my oldest started watching Stranger Things, I started watching it with him. I promised the youngest could start watching it after turning eleven this past June.
Enter Disney Plus. We got a free trial, the Mandalorian sucked us in, and we’ve had it ever since. And then quarantine started. The kids suggested we have family movie nights every Friday night. Usually, I fall asleep halfway through any movie, so they wouldn’t invite me often. The kids wanted me to watch The Mandalorian with them from the beginning, but the way it was done “a long time ago” with one episode per week. I think they expected me to binge-watch. I reminded them I’m a product of the 80s, not only with the stamina to wait an entire week before the next show, but with the ability to watch commercials in between. So we got started, one show per week.
We finished the series. S. suggested we watch all of the Harry Potter movies since she was reading the books. The next eight weeks we lived and breathed Harry Potter. During the day, S. read aloud to me using her best British accent. Friday nights, they got junk food from the QT mart (without me rolling my eyes) and we watched the next movie in the queue.
The eleventh birthday arrived. That evening, even though it wasn’t a Friday, we started Stranger Things. We watched all three seasons and I enjoyed our weekly evening family flick dates. School started soon after so we chose a different movie every Friday after dinner. Without our “assigned” watching schedule, there was mutiny. Some movies we couldn’t watch because S. is eleven. I had to explain to the hubster, several times, why it wasn’t okay for her to watch Forrest Gump. “But it’s a great movie!” he exclaimed.
He started watched it on his own and realized it wasn’t appropriate. Eventually we argued about who should choose the movie. We argued about the bore factor, fun factor, lame factor, and sometimes the rating factor. By the time we settled on something, all the snacks were gone, everyone was exhausted, and yes, I fell asleep halfway through. Old times.
We agreed to each choose five family friendly movies and write them on slips of paper. One slip comes out every Friday night and no one can complain about it. The slips went into a jar. S cheated. All of her movie choices were folded in half. The others were not. The first movie selected was hers. Busted!
I dumped out all the slips, turned my computer on, and pulled up the handy dandy Wheel of Names. I entered all of the movies and took it for a spin. Done and done. No complaining. No cheating. The wheel chooses for us. I should’ve done my homework on my list. The Social Network isn’t appropriate for an eleven year old. And then we had to figure out what to do in case of a dud.
Sigh…it would be nice to argue over a family friendly movie to watch at a real movie theater.
who invites you somewhere
new,
adventurous?
you think about going
and you check it out
a few times
You think,
yes, maybe this will
work
Introductions are made
smiles exchanged
still wary
but you feel
content
like the essence of
who you are
is
understood
You keep going on your own
here and there
testing it out
meeting other people
awakening out of your
otherness
You start chatting
and discover some have
real friend potential,
outside of this space
I'd love to hang out in person
sort of potential,
the oh my goodness,
THANK YOU SO MUCH
potential
It's one thing to fit in,
It's a whole other level of living
to belong
Nerds Beget Nerds 