I woke up this morning, with a pep in my step. My favorite dress was clean, the one I like to wear with my short brown boots and jean jacket. I added a sparkly strand of beads. I couldn’t tell it was going to be a terrible, no good, very bad day.
It started well. Observation scheduled for noon. Three classes before that, I got to work out the kinks. It went well. Students understood tasks and it was time for lunch. Except it wasn’t.
A student came in, one of my favorites. Lunch had to wait. Can’t leave a student unsupervised. I took a break to check emails and I got a message. Then a phone call. I could tell where it was going from here. It felt like it would become a terrible, no good, very bad day.
A phone call followed. I made arrangements for my last class of the day. Signed out. Drove to the school for an early pick up. Things will get better when we get home. Except they didn’t.
I called to make an appointment. “We take walk-ins, if you leave now we can see you right away.” There’s a plus. We go straight there. Traffic is starting to get heavy, but we’re just ahead of it. Barely.
We arrived and I completed forms. Wait a few minutes until it’s our turn. Get to the room, except something is missing. I call home, there’s something I need. No answer.
Text message.
Call.
Text message.
Call.
“How far do you live from here?”
“About fifteen minutes, but traffic.”
I could tell she’d say no. “Go get it and let them know when you come back, I’ll see you as soon as you return.” It has become a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Back in the car. Traffic is thick. Thirty minutes later, I get what we need and go back to the car. Drive back, trying to stay calm. When will this be over?
We check in again. Call us back. Everything is fine.
Back to the car. Back home. On the way, I get a call, “What do you want for dinner?”
It wasn’t planned to get take-out, but today I’m making an exception. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
In two weeks, we’ll be in total darkness. For a little over three minutes, nine seconds, where we live. Partial begins at 12:18 p.m. Full eclipse starts at 1:36:21 and will end at 1:39:27. At 2:58, it ends.
Hubby couldn’t be more happy. He has been anticipating this event for years. He wasn’t able to snag a camping site at Enchanted Rock, to his dismay. Eclipse glasses have been acquired. Plans changed. He’s biking to a nearby park. E. already ordered neon colored plastic framed viewing glasses oozing with 80s vibes. They’re hanging out together that day.
Geekdom at its finest because nerds beget nerds.
Some school districts in the path have canceled school. Ours did not. I’ll be at work, participating from there. Most likely helping wrangle kids so they don’t wander off campus. Or actually look at it. Without their eclipse glasses. I’m sure many of our staff will call in sick, leaving the rest of us to deal with covering classes.
The Texas Department of Transportation estimates high traffic, suggesting against people parking on the sides of roads. Avoid scheduling appointments. Don’t use binoculars or telescopes even if you have eclipse watching glasses. Have a full tank of gas. Refrain from wearing eclipse glasses while driving. The weather, so far, should be clear.
Campus principals are responsible for making a plan. We got that plan today. I wonder how often it will change?
Until then, my husband and oldest will be hanging out, enjoying the show. I’ll be at work, S. will be at school, and we’ll be outside participating for about three minutes.
This song repeats in my head every time my husband mentions it. I’ll work on a playlist to gift him to mark the occasion.
Besides Rocket Man, Weird Science, and She Blinded Me With Science, share your favorite eclipse watching songs.
Prom season is my favorite. Not my favorite as a high schooler, but it’s my favorite now. When people I know post pictures of their kids in their prom dresses or tuxedos, I imagine I’m a Hollywood entertainment personality commenting (silently) on each outfit.
I even give imaginary awards. Best Overall. Classiest. Best Two-Piece. Best Tux. Most Unique. Favorite Dress/Tux Combo. Best Friend Group. Best Formal/Chuck Taylors combo. Dumb little awards I make up, but have such fun deciding on awards.
My niece, a high school senior, went prom dress shopping. Of her four choices, she chose one of my two favorites. One, a white form fitting, low-backed floor length dress with a sequined overlay was on of the lucky dresses chosen for the occasion. It’s gorgeous on her. The second was a royal blue floor length dress with criss-crossing back straps and glittery overlay. I’m partial to sparkles. Lucky kid, she gets to attend two proms this year. I’m sure she’ll have the time of her life.
I wonder if S. will go to prom? Will she want to attend? Will she go to one of those popular un-proms? What color dress will she choose? Will she go with a friend group or solo? Will she decide to go with her bff from kindergarten, who is like a brother, but better because they aren’t really siblings so it doesn’t count?
It’s coming too soon. A memory from Facebook popped up last week. She must have been in second or third grade, but there she was, pictured next to one of her favorite dresses in a department store. The same one where my niece found her dresses. That’s when she liked all things fluffy, princess-y, and of course, sparkly.
I’ll gladly wait for prom dress shopping day. Unless she dumps me like she did for homecoming dress shopping. I didn’t even get to take her shoe shopping for that either. I’ll lower my expectations and hopefully be pleasantly surprised. It sure would be fun going prom dress shopping again.
Until then, I’ll pour myself a bottle of bubbly rosé, kick back, and re-watch my favorite John Hughes film in honor of prom seasons past and present, Pretty in Pink.
I spent a lot of time with my grandparents when I was young. One year, a couple of months after my fourth birthday, they went to a church conference in Kansas. My parents allowed me to tag along. Two of my uncles, the ones who doted on me most, assured my parents I was in good hands.
We arrived and I don’t remember much about events other than attending church services and eating meals with people in attendance.
One day, we stopped at a grocery store to pick up a loaf of bread and cold cuts for sandwiches in the motel room. We passed a bakery case full of birthday cakes. Growing up in a small town, our grocery store didn’t have a bakery. I stopped in front of the case and wistfully looked at birthday cakes displayed for other people’s happiness.
I noticed a chocolate cake. Double layers, decorated with a bear riding a unicycle while juggling red, blue and yellow balls. “Happy Birthday!” declared the talented circus bear. My mind created a birthday party with all my friends singing the birthday song. Candles lit on a cake presented to me, the birthday girl. Gifts wrapped full of surprises surrounding me.
Uncle Oscar stood nearby, and I pulled away from the case, getting ready to leave. He began speaking with the baker. He asked me which one I liked. I wasn’t sure why he asked, but I pointed to the chocolate unicycle riding bear cake.
“It’s her birthday, and that’s the one she wants…”
It’snot my birthday, it already passed… I tried to explain. How could he not remember?
“It’s her birthday,” he insisted, “we’ll take the chocolate cake.”
The baker boxed it up, my uncle paid, and we left the grocery store.
At the motel, after a lunch of sandwiches, Uncle Oscar unboxed the cake. My grandparents, Uncle Oscar and Uncle Danny sang me the birthday song, Nana and Papá belting out “Happy birthday to ju…” I blew out candles and we sliced into the cake.
It was my first bakery cake, chocolatey and delicious. I did have a birthday, but it was in July.
I can’t remember the occasion. Were we nearing winter break? Or did I merely want to show her my appreciation? This was before teacher appreciation day became the norm, at least at my school. However, I desperately wanted to give Mrs. Nafzger a gift.
Shopping around the house, I found a cheap gold velvet ring box and a hefty service station pen my dad brought home. I loved that pen and it was the fanciest complimentary pen I ever saw. It was burgundy with a gold pocket clip, the brand lettered in calligraphy. It read Alexander with a large square-trimmed letter A at the bottom of the clip. Blue ink. Smooth.
Learning cursive, I practiced at home, feeling special. By the end of the year, we’d all reach a milestone: cursive handwriting, one of my favorite subjects. She had to have this pen. I imagined how she’d use it to write her perfectly looped and connected letters to write Nice Work! atop one of my spelling papers.
I had a pack of orange flavored Hubba-Bubba bubblegum, (when you blew bubbles with that gum, it didn’t stick to your face) and I stuffed two pieces into the box. Not a ring, but presentation is important.
I wrote her a note in my best cursive handwriting. The pen was Scotch-taped to the box. It didn’t stick well to the velvet box. She accepted it with a smile. Later, I felt embarrassed because it was a stupid gift. Who gives someone two pieces of bubble gum and a free pen from a gas station?
The next day, stopped at my desk and placed an envelope in front of me, my name was written in cursive on the front. I flipped it over and carefully tugged it open. On real stationery, I read a heartfelt handwritten note thanking me for the gift, telling me how orange was her favorite flavor and how she enjoyed using the pen. It was the first thank you note I ever received, penned in her own beautiful cursive handwriting. I kept that note and read it often.
Spring brings opportunities for growth and metaphorical lessons blossom this time of the year. As a kid, we drank down milk (chocolate for me) that accompanied our lunches and teachers reminded us to save our empty cartons. We must have forgotten frequently or the teacher stashed away said cartons, but the dreaded day came when it was time for sowing seeds.
I don’t remember much about the lessons, but I remember washing out and drying the cartons, opening the opposite end of the drinking side, and adding soil. Next came the seeds and a sprinkling of water. Lopsided red and white milk cartons lined classroom window sills with the occasional brown and white ones. A few of us didn’t like regular milk.
Sure enough, within days, someone announces the first sprout emerging from the carton-pot. We all gathered around, taking a look at the tiny green specimen boldly pushing its boundaries wondering whose would be next. Sprout they did. First one, and it seemed within minutes, another, another, and another. The race was on with observing leaves and measuring height. The first one to sprout raced to the top, leading the class in all of its spring time glory, a mini-beanstalk, not nearly as big as Jack’s. Would there be a mini-giant running after him?
I read too many books of imaginary little people and giants and magic beans.
Looking in my milk carton, the same soil sat there. Day after day, I willed something to grow. I followed the directions. I added the soil and pushed down the seeds, lightly topping them off with soil. I watered it like we were instructed. I placed it on the window sill with the others. Excited with all of the new shoots, classmates hurriedly crowded around the window sill to see whose plant led the class in height, or number of leaves, or even a second shoot.
Lucky.
There mine sat, a little carton of soil with nothing growing. I don’t remember any teacher giving me advice, allowing me to plant another seed, or encouraging me to pair up with someone else. No lessons on why some seeds germinate and others don’t. I quickly observed my dirt, went back to my seat and drew a little box, covered with brown crayon. My green crayon was much taller, the brown one getting worn down each day. Why couldn’t I use both like everyone else?
The special day arrived when we took them home as gifts. Mother’s Day gifts. This is for my mother? A lopsided repurposed chocolate milk carton full of barren dirt? My mother deserves so much more. Kids proudly walked out of school lugging book bags and lunch boxes, their plants proudly waving goodby to the rest of us as they were escorted home.
We did this for a few years. Each year, whatever I planted either barely sprouted or didn’t bother to grow. Later, I learned to stop at the trash can, making my annual deposit and walking home empty handed while everyone else took plants home. Did they re-pot them when they arrived? How long did they last?
I never knew and I never asked, but I did try my best.
Teacher me would have started the container gardening lesson with The Empty Pot, by Demi. Of course, I’m older than the book, but no matter. I used it with a class today and reminded everyone that sometimes, not all seeds will sprout. If that’s the case, they can try again. I just want them to do their best.
A few years ago, we watched a video during a staff development meeting. It was about not knowing what people are thinking and making assumptions about why they respond or behave in a certain way. What would pop over people’s heads if we could see their thoughts?
These are some of today’s bubbles hovering over my head.
Nerds Beget Nerds 