I have hesitated to share this story, not only because of the personal nature of it, but also because some of the things I have to admit in order to bring clarity are things about which I'm ashamed.
However, I hope that in sharing my story, it might help someone who's struggling the way I have for the last few years.
I have anxiety. Crowds, unfamiliar social situations, loud noises, cross-table talk at dinner parties, and running late all make me extremely anxious. The feeling I get in these situations is comparable to what I imagine one who has a fear of flying feels when their airplane hits turbulence. Racing heartbeat, inability to focus, sweaty palms, feeling that the room is closing in...
To those who know me well, this may not come as a shock. But to those acquaintances who've known me as a singer at church, a classroom teacher, a music teacher, and who've watched me easily make conversation with strangers, it might be surprising.
That's because I've always been able to compensate. Outside of failing to focus and forgetting what friends and family have told me over dinner, I effectively portray the image of a girl who's pretty well put together and self-assured most of the time. Therefore, until recently, I'd never even spoken to a doctor about it, and I've never been medicated. (Except for a couple months right before my wedding when I was a supremely HOT mess.)
In fact, I've never even acknowledged anxiety as a real possibility. I've always assumed I must have some serious undiagnosed adult ADHD, because the secondary side effects of my anxiety include the inability to focus, forgetfulness (probably because of the inability to focus), and feeling overwhelmed because I can't focus on or remember all the things I need to get done.
At best over the years, I've been made fun of by coworkers and friends for having the attention span of a goldfish, and at worst, I've offended people by not being able to keep my attention on them during serious conversations. (Squirrel!)
But a few years ago, after suffering a miscarriage, I started experiencing my anxiety in a different way. It manifested in outbursts of anger, emotional instability, and anxiety about going pretty much anywhere that involved strangers, and even sometimes with situations involving close friends or family. I attributed all of this to my imbalanced hormones and grief, and I told myself it would get better with time. And I never told anyone. I just powered through and pretended everything was ok.
Then, after the birth of my second child, I started to see behaviors that I didn't even recognize as myself. The angry outbursts turned into screaming fits of rage that I'm embarrassed to say have almost always been directed at my sweet babies. And y'all, I'm not talking about just yelling. All moms yell sometimes, and if you say you don't, you're either a liar or you're medicated.
What I'm talking about is a guttural, inhuman sound that leaves one shaky and feeling as though they might have damaged their vocal chords. And also like they might be a monster.
I spoke with my obgyn because early on I worried it could be post-partum depression. He quizzed me about whether or not I was fantasizing about hurting or abandoning my kids, and I said no. He told me it was natural to feel some anxiety, because being a nursing mom is kind of like being in prison.
Indeed.
He recommended a mild antidepressant since they're good for treating anxiety and safe for nursing. But I was nervous about the effects it might have on the baby. Ironically, I wasn't as worried about the effects my cray cray behavior might be having. I asked him for recommendations on vitamins to try first, and I took a B complex and magnesium, which seemed to help. But I would still have days where I could tell from the second my feet hit the floor that it would be a doozy. I'd be highly agitated and easy to rile, and my poor kids continued to suffer emotionally on the many occasions when I failed to keep my anger in check.
Even so, part of me still didn't acknowledge that I might actually have a problem such as anxiety. I felt like after three pregnancies, one miscarriage, and many months of nursing over the course of only four years, it was probably just my hormones. Or maybe I had anger issues and needed counseling. Or maybe I was just a terrible mother and not meant to have kids at all.
But here's the kicker and my reason for sharing my story:
Regardless of what was causing this shameful behavior that often left me feeling worthless and overwrought with guilt, I felt wholeheartedly that I should be able to get it under control myself. I tried changes of habit, such as yoga, reading self-help books on parenting and emotions, Bible study, essential oils and dietary supplements. I considered the possibility that I just wasn't meant to stay home with kids, and considered going back to work full time. I felt sure there was just an internal character flaw that I needed to fix.
For some sad reason, I was more willing to shame myself into thinking there was something inherently wrong with me, than to admit that I might actually have a mental condition that required medication.
When my second child was about to turn one, the problem hadn't improved much, so I spoke with my family doctor about the possibility of ADHD. But when I listed my symptoms to her, she recommended an antidepressant, just as my obgyn had done. She said all the symptoms I listed, while they might seem like an issue with attention, are also common with anxiety and depression. She recommended I see a specialist to get a firm diagnosis, but wrote a prescription in the meantime.
I was still nursing, so again I put off taking medication, and I promised myself I'd follow up after I finished nursing. But that never happened. My last ditch effort to avoid medication was to see a therapist, thinking that if I could talk through the things that I felt might be triggering my "anxiety", it might just go away on its own.
But one Saturday morning, I was finally forced to accept that I needed some help.
I had plans to take my boys on an outing to a building project at Home Depot. We had a difficult time getting out the door because neither boy was listening to me. This is completely typical of life with 5- and 2-yr-old boys, so it didn't surprise me that I had to yell to finally get them to clean up their toys, put on their shoes, and get to the car, nor did it surprise me that we were all crying by the time we were loaded and ready to go.
But the difference this particular morning was that I seriously hesitated before putting the car in gear. I thought to myself, "I probably shouldn't take them anywhere." I didn't feel emotionally stable, and I felt pretty sure that a public outing was going to end badly. However, we had made plans to meet a friend, and I didn't want to flake, so we went ahead. We actually had a great time without incident, which is saying a lot with two boys, hammers, nails, and paint.
But on the way out, my 2-year-old decided to cop a squat on the floor and refused to move. I finally had to give in and carry him clear to the other end of Home Depot so I could use the restroom. (Did I mention I'm pregnant, and he weighs 35 pounds?) I was lucky enough to find a cart to put him in before walking back to our friends who were with my 5-yr-old, who by this time was in full whackadoodle mode, running in circles and touching all of the things. The 2-yr-old started screaming NOOOOO at me for keeping him in the cart, and throwing his shoes at anyone within range. I was so flustered by them, I accidentally dropped and broke a package of light bulbs I had stopped to buy on our way out the door. This is what some might call a downward spiral.
For participating in the project, we received tickets for free hot dogs, so we stopped to eat with our friends before leaving. We had misplaced one of the tickets, so my boys had to share one hot dog, and I didn't have cash on me to buy drinks and chips, which led to lots of whining from the 5-yr-old. This further flustered me, and I started to feel angry. We finally found the missing ticket, so I got them the second dog to share on the way home, and I rushed us to the car because I could feel a Mommy meltdown coming on.
As we got in the car, the 5-yr-old was screaming and crying about not wanting to share the hot dog, and the 2-yr-old was whining about not wanting to leave, and I felt like I couldn't breathe for one more second in the 100+ degree weather. I got behind the wheel and took some deep breaths to try to calm the rage building up in me. The 5-yr-old continued to whine about sharing the dog, so I ripped his half from his hands and gave the whole thing to the 2-yr-old. The 2-yr-old was happy with this arrangement, but it sent my 5-yr-old into complete hysterics. I was inside my head thinking, "I'm going to lose my shit. I'm going to lose my shit. I'm going to lose my shit."
About halfway home, I lost my shit. I brought the car to a screeching halt on the side of the road and threatened the 5-yr-old within an inch of his life if he didn't shut his ungrateful mouth and let Mommy get her head straight.
He got quiet alright, but by the time we were home, I was a wreck. I started crying uncontrollably, so I went to the bathroom for a moment to regain my composure. This wasn't the first time I'd had to lock myself in a room away from my children to get it together, but this time, I had trouble coming back out. I was shaking and crying, and I just. could. not. stop.
I finally came out just so they wouldn't be unattended, but I couldn't stop the crying. My oldest started asking if I was ok, and I couldn't even give him a coherent answer through my ridiculous sobbing.
For the first time ever, I felt completely incapable of caring for my children. Even in my angriest moments, I have never feared that I would actually cause real harm to my kids. But in that moment, even though I knew I wouldn't hurt them, I also knew with certainty that I wasn't emotionally capable of meeting their needs. And certainly, me sitting there sobbing and hyperventilating at the kitchen table wasn't a very good example of emotional stability.
So I called a neighbor, and she blessed me by taking them for an hour so I could get myself together. I drove to the closest grocery store and walked around by myself for thirty minutes just because I could, and then I went home and made lunch and ate in silence.
I was able to make it through the rest of the day with the help of long naps for the boys and some TV time after they got up. But I continued with unexpected and uncontrollable bouts of crying, and for the remainder of the weekend, I just felt like a mess. I knew it was time to finally do something about it.
I called my obgyn first thing Monday morning, and he prescribed a medication he considers safe for pregnancy. I started taking it that day. He told me to give it a week to start working, but within a few days I could already tell a difference.
I've now been taking this medication for almost a month, and it has been life-changing for me. Sure, I still have my moments where I get angry at my kids for not cleaning up or putting their shoes on, for flushing Legos down the toilet, or for talking back to me.
But I haven't had one day where I felt guilty for the way I yelled at them, or where I felt inept to take care of them. The only guilt I have felt is over waiting so long to do something to fix the problem, and for the fact that I can't get back or undo the many moments where I failed my tiny humans.
But instead of focusing on the regrets, I've been paying attention to the many ways in which my acceptance of and willingness to deal with my problem has changed things for the better. I didn't realize how seldom I was laughing and smiling. I've always been a pretty happy-go-lucky person, and like I said, I'm pretty good at compensating for and hiding my weaknesses. But recently I thought, "I cannot remember the last time I laughed as many times as I've laughed today. It feels so good." Many times I've caught myself smiling just watching my kids play, watching a show, or doing a mundane chore, and it's made me realize how many moments of each day I was spending NOT smiling.
I'm 41 and eight months pregnant, so I'm pretty tired and not always at the top of my parenting game. But now I'm much more willing to put my to-dos on hold and just be in the moment with my kids. I can get through a trip to Target without feeling like I'm going to rip my hair out or strangle a child. And y'all, that's huge. And when I do choose to spend time on the to-dos, I can focus well enough so it mostly doesn't look like a bomb went off in the house.
The point is, all I had to do was acknowledge that there was a real problem, and that I needed help to make it better. All the time I spent being stubborn and believing I could fix it myself was wasted, and if I'm being honest, probably caused at least a little emotional damage to my kids. I can only hope I have loved on my babies enough to outweigh whatever damage I might have done along the way. But it doesn't make it hurt any less that I put them through what I did, just because I wasn't willing to face reality.
And me. I put ME through that too. I put myself through feeling incompetent, worthless, and less-than. I put myself through so many moments of unnecessary anger that left me feeling so, so guilty and had me asking what in the world was WRONG with me???
I put myself and my babies through all that, just because I didn't want to face the fact that there was a real problem and accept that I needed treatment.
So whether you're dealing with anxiety, or depression, or something different altogether, stop trying to convince yourself that you can or should have to fix it on your own.
Maybe yours manifests in anger like mine. Maybe you disengage with your loved ones. Maybe you refuse to leave the house to participate in family functions because you just don't feel like it. Maybe you're mean to your spouse instead of your kids. Or maybe you just can't get out of bed in the morning.
Whatever your struggle, stop avoiding the reality of your situation. Admit that there's a problem, and do something to make it better.
Your most cherished people, and YOU, will thank you for it.
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Sunday, January 15, 2017
The Not-So-Stay-At-Home-Mommy
I promised a post titled "The Not-So-Stay-At-Home-Mommy", which was to center around the fact that SAHMs do not, in fact, ever get to just stay at home. However, I have been running around too much to write the post, so here's the nutshell:
I knew being a SAHM would be the hardest job ever, even if it does allow me more time to keep up with chores and cooking healthy dinners, etc. But I did NOT know that time would become a monster that would eat itself up each day before I could blink. I had big plans for how I would spend my time each day. I envisioned a sparkling clean house and children who would be enriched each day by their former-teacher mommy. Instead I can hear my slippers stick to the kitchen floor as I walk, and my toddler is eating his fingernails and watching TV as I try to get the mess under control.
Like, seriously. Where does the time go? I have thirteen solid hours to work with from the time they get up until they go to bed. How is it that many days find me at 8 p.m., laying my stinky, sticky kids down without a bath for the fourth day in a row because somehow we ran out of time? And how has that pile of laundry STILL not been put away??? What the flip did I do all day????
Some days I think it's just me and my sub-par time-management skills. This must just not be my thang. But most days I try to give myself a break and realize it's the nature of the beast.
Granted, my part-time job adds to the running around. But even if I stayed at home full-time, most days don't go as planned. A teething baby, ornery toddlerist, flat tire on the jog stroller, unexpected poop, or realization that we forgot a necessity at the grocery store can completely rearrange our morning. Booberries Mommy! MO BOOBERRIES!!!
Most days, I accomplish at least one load of laundry; washed, dried, and folded. On a rockstar day, I put it away. So at least everyone has clean underwear, right? Some days I do a craft with my toddler and I feel like I'm mom of the year. Some days I get the chores done AND take the kids to the park, and I feel like pretty hot shit about it. Other days, well, you know.
At the end of most days, though, I have played with my kids, read books to them, sung to them, fed them, and hopefully made them feel loved and cared for, and I guess that trumps putting away laundry. SAHMs and working moms alike, give yourselves a pat on the back for keeping your kids alive and making sure all your people are wearing clean underwear.
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
The J-O-B Part I: I Quit
I used to have a J-O-B. Five days a week, I got up at 5:30, took about an hour to get ready, got my son up and dressed, dropped him at daycare around 6:45 or 7, and then headed to work. I set up my classroom for the day's lessons, checked emails, checked in with teammates about the schedule for the day, checked my box in the front office, and then began my day as a teacher around 7:30. My fifty minute 'planning' or 'conference' period was usually consumed by scheduled or impromptu meetings to discuss student progress or concerns, or by training on the latest technology developments and best practices, or by reviewing data from student assessments. Very rarely was it spent planning or conferencing. My lunch was a brief 20 minutes between dropping kids off and picking them up from the cafeteria. The other 6.5 hours I spent developing relationships with kids, inspiring them to crave knowledge and take risks, observing them and making note of their progress, areas of weakness, and areas where they needed to be challenged. After ensuring all students were safely dismissed, I spent at least 1-2 hours each day reviewing student data and tweaking lesson plans, grading papers, conferencing with other teachers, returning parent phone calls and emails, doing research for tools to make my lessons more engaging...and on and on.
When I left at 4:30 or 5 most days, I picked up my child from daycare, where he had spent a solid ten hours in someone else's care. I then went home to resume my other job as mother until his bedtime at 8 p.m. Most days I tried to be patient enough and present enough, and most days I failed.
At 8 p.m. most nights, I resumed my role as homemaker and wife, making dinner so that my husband and I could sit down for a few uninterrupted moments together. After cleaning up dinner, I started, switched out, or folded laundry while watching a little TV before a never-early-enough bedtime. Oftentimes I also sat with my laptop, grading papers, entering grades, responding to parent emails, or creating lessons.
On my days off, I caught up on all the things I couldn't possibly keep track of during the week.
In the fall of 2015, when my first child was two and I was seven months pregnant with the second, I began to question how I could continue with this overwhelming existence once a second child entered the mix. I stayed awake at night doing lots and lots of math in my head. I figured up the cost of childcare for two children, which would be about a third of my salary. I realized that I could no longer justify working fifty-hour work weeks, spending ten hours away from my kids every weekday, just so I could pay someone else to be with them. I could no longer justify being incapable of being present for them during the off times.
In January 2016, I gave birth to my second child. During my twelve weeks of maternity leave I struggled with the decision I was contemplating. As exhausted as I was, and as much as I want to be a good mother and do right by my kids, I love teaching. I am truly, passionately, divinely called to teach. It is in my heart and my blood, and even on the hardest of days, I never questioned the purpose to which my life had been called.
But I had to make a choice between the J-O-B of teaching, and the J-O-B of being a momma, wife, and homemaker. In the end there really was no choice for me.
I quit. I quit trying to balance a ridiculously overwhelming set of expectations placed on my head as a teacher with the ridiculously overwhelming job of being a mom. And let's be honest. Most moms are the ones doing all the additional work outside of just being a parent and working full time. Laundry, cleaning, errands, meals, etc. etc. etc. And no offense to the husbands. I know you try and help. But it's just a natural truth that women are the caretakers and the control freaks, and most often these responsibilities fall to us. (Or we rip them out of the hands of whoever tries to load the dishwasher the wrong way.)
So I quit. I quit a J-O-B that I had loved and lived for fourteen years, because the teacher-mom dual existence was too much to ask of any one human being.
Kudos to those of you mommas who somehow hold your heads above water as you teach and inspire other people's kids, and then come home and find the strength to love and nurture your own. To those of you who balance a fifty-hour work week with game schedules, dance practices and recitals, family dinners for your people...and who somehow keep your people in clean underwear throughout the week. Kudos to you who could do what I could not. I hope the teaching profession finds a way someday to repay you for your many sacrifices.
Stay tuned for The J-O-B Part II: The Not-So-Stay-At-Home-Mom
When I left at 4:30 or 5 most days, I picked up my child from daycare, where he had spent a solid ten hours in someone else's care. I then went home to resume my other job as mother until his bedtime at 8 p.m. Most days I tried to be patient enough and present enough, and most days I failed.
At 8 p.m. most nights, I resumed my role as homemaker and wife, making dinner so that my husband and I could sit down for a few uninterrupted moments together. After cleaning up dinner, I started, switched out, or folded laundry while watching a little TV before a never-early-enough bedtime. Oftentimes I also sat with my laptop, grading papers, entering grades, responding to parent emails, or creating lessons.
On my days off, I caught up on all the things I couldn't possibly keep track of during the week.
In the fall of 2015, when my first child was two and I was seven months pregnant with the second, I began to question how I could continue with this overwhelming existence once a second child entered the mix. I stayed awake at night doing lots and lots of math in my head. I figured up the cost of childcare for two children, which would be about a third of my salary. I realized that I could no longer justify working fifty-hour work weeks, spending ten hours away from my kids every weekday, just so I could pay someone else to be with them. I could no longer justify being incapable of being present for them during the off times.
In January 2016, I gave birth to my second child. During my twelve weeks of maternity leave I struggled with the decision I was contemplating. As exhausted as I was, and as much as I want to be a good mother and do right by my kids, I love teaching. I am truly, passionately, divinely called to teach. It is in my heart and my blood, and even on the hardest of days, I never questioned the purpose to which my life had been called.
But I had to make a choice between the J-O-B of teaching, and the J-O-B of being a momma, wife, and homemaker. In the end there really was no choice for me.
I quit. I quit trying to balance a ridiculously overwhelming set of expectations placed on my head as a teacher with the ridiculously overwhelming job of being a mom. And let's be honest. Most moms are the ones doing all the additional work outside of just being a parent and working full time. Laundry, cleaning, errands, meals, etc. etc. etc. And no offense to the husbands. I know you try and help. But it's just a natural truth that women are the caretakers and the control freaks, and most often these responsibilities fall to us. (Or we rip them out of the hands of whoever tries to load the dishwasher the wrong way.)
So I quit. I quit a J-O-B that I had loved and lived for fourteen years, because the teacher-mom dual existence was too much to ask of any one human being.
Kudos to those of you mommas who somehow hold your heads above water as you teach and inspire other people's kids, and then come home and find the strength to love and nurture your own. To those of you who balance a fifty-hour work week with game schedules, dance practices and recitals, family dinners for your people...and who somehow keep your people in clean underwear throughout the week. Kudos to you who could do what I could not. I hope the teaching profession finds a way someday to repay you for your many sacrifices.
Stay tuned for The J-O-B Part II: The Not-So-Stay-At-Home-Mom
Thursday, August 4, 2016
#Perspective
As the school year draws near, I can picture all my teacher friends busily working away in classrooms with no a/c, purging things they didn't use last year even as they cart in the new supplies bought at the latest Teacher's Tools sale, hanging bulletin boards and rearranging desks. And y'all, I am jealous.
After fourteen years of teaching, eleven of which were spent in the same classroom, I resigned to stay at home with my sweet babies for a short time. The decision was made based on a host of reasons: the growing demands placed on teachers, the length of my days bleeding into difficult evenings with a toddler who I had to leave in childcare for 10+ hours a day, the coming of a new baby, the anticipated cost of childcare for two children instead of just one, which stood in glaring contrast to the salary that never seemed quite enough for the time I was spending with other mommas' babies. Add to all that the time required to pump for a nursing baby, a husband who works twelve-hour days 5-6 days a week, and on and on, and this momma just wasn't able to uphold the supermom persona.
I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I made the right decision for myself and my family. I know that my children and husband will be blessed by my presence in our home, and I know that not for one second will I ever regret the time...the precious, precious time...with my babies.
However, for a teacher whose heart is all tied up in knots of passion for the education of children, there are moments of every day when I feel melancholy over the decision I've made. I truly and deeply love what I do with a passion that is only matched by my passion for my own children.
So, for all you teachers our there who are rolling your eyes as you sit through yet another staff development day when you have SO...MUCH...TO...DO...I gift you with this list of things I'm already missing about being a teacher. Nothing like a role change to put things in perspective.
1) I miss my teacher friends. I have complained more than once over the years about the henhouse that is a school. Teaching in a building full of women is hard. It is drama-filled, gossip-filled, and sometimes more than a tomgirl can take. But oh girls, what I would give right now for a whispered conversation in the hallway, a bitch session behind a closed door, a one hour lunch with like-minded peers...even just one moment with my cackling, ridiculous, amazing teacher friends. High schoolish gossip and drama aside, you will never find support, love, fellowship, and plain old female greatness the likes of which you find within the walls of a school. (And there's also a greatness to be found in the very few men who are brave enough to grace those same halls with their presence and tolerate the estrogen levels in the air.)
2) I miss putting together my classroom. Sweaty hours spent in a musty classroom...oh how I miss thee. One of my favorite things about teaching is getting to start over every year. Transitioning my classroom from a blank canvas to a purposeful learning environment is one of my greatest prides. And no teacher can deny the euphoria brought on by an hour or few in a teacher supply store. Stacking bins or Sharpies, anyone???
3) I miss professional development days. I know, I know, you're all rolling your eyes at me...and the presenter to whom you're supposed to be attending as you read my blog. I know. You know it already. You've heard it before. You have SO MANY OTHER THINGS that need your attention and time right now! But girls, there is an emptiness in me as I think of you walking into that common area (most likely the library) for the first day back, and you hug each other's necks, chat about your summer travels, and show pictures of your babies. Embrace that time, and remember that even though you know it already, you've heard it before, and you have so many other things to do, much of the purpose is in the fellowship.
4) I miss the kids. Of course, the greatness of being at home with my own sweet babes far outweighs time spent with anyone else's kids. However, I already have a rapport with my own kids, and they have to love me. But as a teacher, every year for fourteen years, one of my favorite things has been finding fun ways to build rapport with a brand new group of kids. Learning their names, their quirks, their individual learning needs, their families, their hobbies, trying to reach those kids who don't want to be reached...those are the things that have kept me passionately engaged in the same position for eleven years.
5) I miss meetings. I know, you're thinking What Ever TF, she is so full of shit. But seriously, I almost cried at my last meeting at the end of the school year. Because no matter how many times I've complained about a meeting consuming the time I could have spent planning or grading papers, it was time spent in the presence of other great teachers, upon whom I was blessed to sharpen myself. I will miss those precious moments of intellectual stimulation. And the snacks. I'll also miss the snacks.
6) I miss lesson plans. During my time at home, I'll be blessed to teach music part time, and I'm thankful that lessons are provided for me, because frankly, I'm just tired. However, there is almost nothing that makes me feel more accomplished as an educator than creating an amazing, engaging, differentiated lesson to accompany whatever skill needs to be taught. Seriously, if you can make 'main idea' fun, you're pretty awesome.
Now, in the spirit of fairness and keeping it real, these are some things I will NOT miss. I will NOT miss grading papers, administering standardized tests, analyzing standardized testing data, tutoring kids based on standardized testing data to improve areas of weakness rather than enriching areas of strength, 10+ hour days, feeling incapable of balance, watching kids get away with a bunch of ridiculousness without penalty, having limited ownership of my time.
I will NOT miss those things.
But being a public school classroom teacher...THAT I will miss.
After fourteen years of teaching, eleven of which were spent in the same classroom, I resigned to stay at home with my sweet babies for a short time. The decision was made based on a host of reasons: the growing demands placed on teachers, the length of my days bleeding into difficult evenings with a toddler who I had to leave in childcare for 10+ hours a day, the coming of a new baby, the anticipated cost of childcare for two children instead of just one, which stood in glaring contrast to the salary that never seemed quite enough for the time I was spending with other mommas' babies. Add to all that the time required to pump for a nursing baby, a husband who works twelve-hour days 5-6 days a week, and on and on, and this momma just wasn't able to uphold the supermom persona.
I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I made the right decision for myself and my family. I know that my children and husband will be blessed by my presence in our home, and I know that not for one second will I ever regret the time...the precious, precious time...with my babies.
However, for a teacher whose heart is all tied up in knots of passion for the education of children, there are moments of every day when I feel melancholy over the decision I've made. I truly and deeply love what I do with a passion that is only matched by my passion for my own children.
So, for all you teachers our there who are rolling your eyes as you sit through yet another staff development day when you have SO...MUCH...TO...DO...I gift you with this list of things I'm already missing about being a teacher. Nothing like a role change to put things in perspective.
1) I miss my teacher friends. I have complained more than once over the years about the henhouse that is a school. Teaching in a building full of women is hard. It is drama-filled, gossip-filled, and sometimes more than a tomgirl can take. But oh girls, what I would give right now for a whispered conversation in the hallway, a bitch session behind a closed door, a one hour lunch with like-minded peers...even just one moment with my cackling, ridiculous, amazing teacher friends. High schoolish gossip and drama aside, you will never find support, love, fellowship, and plain old female greatness the likes of which you find within the walls of a school. (And there's also a greatness to be found in the very few men who are brave enough to grace those same halls with their presence and tolerate the estrogen levels in the air.)
2) I miss putting together my classroom. Sweaty hours spent in a musty classroom...oh how I miss thee. One of my favorite things about teaching is getting to start over every year. Transitioning my classroom from a blank canvas to a purposeful learning environment is one of my greatest prides. And no teacher can deny the euphoria brought on by an hour or few in a teacher supply store. Stacking bins or Sharpies, anyone???
3) I miss professional development days. I know, I know, you're all rolling your eyes at me...and the presenter to whom you're supposed to be attending as you read my blog. I know. You know it already. You've heard it before. You have SO MANY OTHER THINGS that need your attention and time right now! But girls, there is an emptiness in me as I think of you walking into that common area (most likely the library) for the first day back, and you hug each other's necks, chat about your summer travels, and show pictures of your babies. Embrace that time, and remember that even though you know it already, you've heard it before, and you have so many other things to do, much of the purpose is in the fellowship.
4) I miss the kids. Of course, the greatness of being at home with my own sweet babes far outweighs time spent with anyone else's kids. However, I already have a rapport with my own kids, and they have to love me. But as a teacher, every year for fourteen years, one of my favorite things has been finding fun ways to build rapport with a brand new group of kids. Learning their names, their quirks, their individual learning needs, their families, their hobbies, trying to reach those kids who don't want to be reached...those are the things that have kept me passionately engaged in the same position for eleven years.
5) I miss meetings. I know, you're thinking What Ever TF, she is so full of shit. But seriously, I almost cried at my last meeting at the end of the school year. Because no matter how many times I've complained about a meeting consuming the time I could have spent planning or grading papers, it was time spent in the presence of other great teachers, upon whom I was blessed to sharpen myself. I will miss those precious moments of intellectual stimulation. And the snacks. I'll also miss the snacks.
6) I miss lesson plans. During my time at home, I'll be blessed to teach music part time, and I'm thankful that lessons are provided for me, because frankly, I'm just tired. However, there is almost nothing that makes me feel more accomplished as an educator than creating an amazing, engaging, differentiated lesson to accompany whatever skill needs to be taught. Seriously, if you can make 'main idea' fun, you're pretty awesome.
Now, in the spirit of fairness and keeping it real, these are some things I will NOT miss. I will NOT miss grading papers, administering standardized tests, analyzing standardized testing data, tutoring kids based on standardized testing data to improve areas of weakness rather than enriching areas of strength, 10+ hour days, feeling incapable of balance, watching kids get away with a bunch of ridiculousness without penalty, having limited ownership of my time.
I will NOT miss those things.
But being a public school classroom teacher...THAT I will miss.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
MIL
Despite all the horror stories I've heard about the dreaded mother-in-law, I ended up with the best one out there. Conversations I have about her with coworkers or friends usually involve the other party saying, "You're so lucky," and me responding, "I know." But on the rare occasions when I hear someone else say they have the best one, I correct them, because they're wrong.
In the eight years I've known my MIL, she has become my friend, confidante, and constant source of support. There are many reasons for which I love my MIL, AKA Glenda, AKA Gigi, AKA Mom, but here are just a few.
- She gave birth to my hubby and best friend, and the one without whom I would not have made my two beautiful babies.
- She raised said hubby, despite many attempts on his part to derail her efforts, to be a loving man with a big heart.
- She passed down her sense of humor, which remains one of the things I love most about my man.
- Her laugh is contagious, though sometimes embarrassingly loud. (Just kidding, Mom. I said that because you always apologize for being too loud.)
- She loves my children like they were her very own, except she has much more patience than their own mother can muster most days.
- She listens to me, probably more than she had ever hoped to listen to anyone in her life.
- She makes great cake.
- She loves animals like no one I've ever known.
- She loves holistic things as much as I do, and it's paradoxical because she also loves fast food as much as I do.
- She thinks I'm funny. A must if you have to spend as much time with me as she does.
- She is giving of time, spirit, energy, forgiveness, grace, love and compassion.
I consider myself double-blessed because I got a wonderful mom to start with, but I inherited a second one when I married Brad.
Thanks, Mom. We love you.
Momma
In the years before I began school, Momma endured what must have been no less than torture as she cared for two children by herself most days of the week while my father was working as a pilot. With a husband who works in the restaurant industry, I often have a toddler and an infant under my solo care for long days and even longer evenings. I now understand that parenting on your own (especially during the witching hours) is not for the faint of heart, and I apologize for the many ways in which we must have made her want to lose her mind.
During my elementary school years, Momma drove me to school every day and was there to pick me up when the final bell rang. She woke before me each morning, made me breakfast, packed me a lunch, and helped me gather my belongings, taking care not to let me forget anything. She never once dropped me off late. She was my Girl Scout troop leader, and she took me to piano lessons and made me practice in the evenings. When I'd fumble and get frustrated, she'd call to me from the kitchen to slow down, listening carefully even as she cooked our dinner. She modeled a love of reading that eventually led me to my chosen career path. She made a well-balanced dinner for us every night. At the time I wished we could eat more fast food, but now I respect and admire her for the true mountain that dinnertime was to climb every...single...night.
Through middle and high school she comforted me through hundreds of migraine headaches. For eight hour stretches, she'd gently rub my forehead and hold my hair back while I was violently ill, and she'd rub my back while I cried. When I woke after finally sleeping, she'd be ready with chicken noodle soup and Sprite, or whatever else sounded good.
During my high school years, Momma drove me to all of my track and cross country meets and cheered me on at the finish line. She'd take me to Arby's on the way home because Jamocha shakes were my favorite thing. Then she navigated her way through my bad choices in boys and friends, dealt with me sneaking around, shutting her out, and generally being awful and worrisome to her. I try not to have regrets, but the way I acted during this phase of my life is one thing I'd take back in a heartbeat. Momma is an angel for putting up with high school Amy. I'm pretty sure my sister was awful too, so she's an angel for putting up with high school Kimberly too.
After high school, she supported me through college and endured many a frantic phone call about things her melodramatic daughter wasn't yet equipped to handle. ("Momma they HAVE to let me out of this dorm room! My roommate is a STRIPPER!") After college, she continued to support me when I made one bad decision after another, and even in my married-with-children years, she sends me flowers every year on the first day of school, and she packs me a doggie bag after every family dinner.
All my life, my momma has fed me, clothed me, and nourished me both physically and emotionally. She has picked me up when I've been down, taken care of me when I've been sick or hurt, and supported me even when she might not have agreed with my choices. Until I had my own children, I didn't really understand what a mother's love truly meant. Now that I have my own children, I know that I'll never truly comprehend the ways in which she has loved me, and I'll never fully appreciate the sacrifices she's made in the name of that love.
Love you, Momma. Thank you.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
The Teacher-Mommy Paradox
We recently placed our precious, almost-not-a-baby-anymore in childcare for the first time. Our son Tyler is two years old, and I'm a teacher who is blessed to be at home with him during summer vacations and holiday breaks. Outside of that, he has received the most incredible home care ever from my mother-in-law, AKA Gigi, for the last two years. So it's fair to say that at the very least, my bar when it comes to childcare is set pretty high.
Even so, I never realized just how hard it would be to entrust my child to the care of a stranger.
As a veteran teacher with 14 years of experience bringing clingy helicopter parents back down to earth and fending off anxious mama bears, I was determined not to be that mom. I would not send needy emails, I would not cry when I dropped my kid off on the first day (or the 10 days after that...), I would not question the teacher's actions, and I would fully and completely trust that my son's needs were being met while he was away from me each day.
Then, on the night before his first day of school, I found myself clicking away at an email to the teacher. I wanted her to know that Tyler had been at home with Gigi and Mommy for two years, just in case he had any trouble adjusting. And just in case she needed help understanding his toddler speak, I translated a few words for her. Oh, and I needed to let her know that we've been working on 'time out' as a consequence. And... What was supposed to be a quick one-liner turned into a 30 minute dissertation about my son's strengths and weaknesses, suggestions for interventions should he not comply with the teacher's wishes, a list of favorite things that make him happy, and on, and on, and on. I even went back and apologized in the first paragraph and promised not to ever send her an email that long again.
I tried to justify my actions to myself, but really it was just my way of coping with the fact that I felt like I was abandoning my child by sending him to school. The first drop off was tearful, but I left feeling fairly confident that Tyler was in good hands.
Then, when I arrived to pick him up on the second day of school, I could hear the raised voice of one of the teachers through the two closed doors that led to the classroom. I walked in and quickly scanned the room, and this is what I saw:
We left, and I cried all the way home because I kept seeing my sweet boy in the rearview mirror, his eyes all red and swollen, and I could hear the whimpery breath-catching that happens after you've had a really long, hard cry. I felt like a terrible mother who had let her child down and left him in the care of someone who didn't care about his needs.
I couldn't help but wonder about this teacher. Why wasn't she comforting either child? Why did I walk in to find her raising her voice at them in frustration, rather than on her knees holding them in her arms? And why was she using sarcasm with two year olds? Of course they're playing in the sink - they're two and they've never had a sink at eye level before!
And then I had to take a moment and say to myself, "You have no idea what happened in that classroom before you walked in."
Maybe she had tried everything to comfort them. Maybe they had been crying nonstop for over an hour and she was about to lose her ever-loving mind. Maybe just before I walked in, one of them hit or pushed her in frustration, as I know my child has done to me before. Or maybe, just maybe, she has enough experience to know when toddlers need to be held, and when they need a firm voice to tell them to get a grip. At the end of the day, I have no way of knowing what transpired before I walked in. The only things I know for sure are that Tyler's school has a stellar reputation, and that I've heard only rave reviews from every friend whose child has attended.
This was the moment when the teacher-mommy paradox became my new reality. While I could reason through the teacher's point of view and feel fully confident that she was more than capable of handling her responsibilities without my quick-scan-of-the-room assessments, I was also now looking through the lense of a mother who has a responsibility to protect a tiny human being who can't protect himself.
Years ago, before kids were even on my radar, the most insulting thing someone could say to me as a teacher was, "Oh, you just can't understand because you don't have kids." I hated this oversimplification of my abilities. As an experienced educator who had clocked more hours of 'experience' with kids than any single one of my friends who were mothers, I felt that it was possible for me to understand.
But now I know with certainty that it is truly impossible to understand the feelings, hopes, fears, desires, judgements, or motives of a mother whose only priority is to protect her baby. I know that until you have children of your own, you cannot understand what it means to love something so much it hurts. I thought I understood this through my love for my husband, but it is a different feeling entirely, because you are responsible for your child in a way you will never be responsible for anyone else. And even when you're not responsible, say for the tears rolling down your child's cheeks, you feel like you are.
So here are my takeaways:
To the teachers: Be patient with parents. They love their children so much it hurts, so much that they sometimes cry just watching them sleep. Be kind to the hearts of mamas and daddies by taking good care of their children. Remember that the most important thing in the world to them is that their children are happy and loved. And don't forget to affirm their belief that their child is the most amazing human being ever created. It really hurts a mama's heart when someone else doesn't recognize her baby's greatness.
To the mamas and daddies: Be patient with teachers. Respect the neverending training that is required of them, and feel confident that they are well-equipped to meet your child's individual needs. Remember that just like you, the teacher wants what is best for your child. Remember that there is no way for you to know what happened when you weren't in the room, and you can't always count on your child to tell you.
To the childless: Be patient with those who tell you that you can't understand unless you have children. They're right. If you plan to have children, just wait. Someday you'll understand. And if you don't plan to have children, just try to put yourself in the shoes of those who do. You can't, but try anyways.
For two years, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that my child's needs were being met and that his greatness was recognized by the one who cared for him while I spent my days with other people's children. I knew that when he was upset, Gigi held and comforted him. And when I came home each day, she told me how wonderful and perfect he was and how much she enjoyed her day with him.
Three weeks into the school year, I have seen my child cry on his way into or out of school more days than I've seen him smile, and neither of his teachers has told me anything that makes me think they recognize his greatness. The thing is, I know that he's happy during the day when I'm not able to see it, because I hear the excitement in his voice when he talks about 'cool. And I know the teachers have to think he's wonderful even if they don't say it, because I know for a fact that he is.
The teacher-mommy paradox is a tricky one. My hope is that it has opened my eyes in ways that will help make me both a better teacher and mother. I hope this year that parents will feel confident that their children's needs are being met during the 8 hours they spend with me. I hope I'll remember to affirm my students' greatness to their parents. And I hope that I'll parent my child in a way that makes him great in the eyes of his teachers.
Even so, I never realized just how hard it would be to entrust my child to the care of a stranger.
As a veteran teacher with 14 years of experience bringing clingy helicopter parents back down to earth and fending off anxious mama bears, I was determined not to be that mom. I would not send needy emails, I would not cry when I dropped my kid off on the first day (or the 10 days after that...), I would not question the teacher's actions, and I would fully and completely trust that my son's needs were being met while he was away from me each day.
Then, on the night before his first day of school, I found myself clicking away at an email to the teacher. I wanted her to know that Tyler had been at home with Gigi and Mommy for two years, just in case he had any trouble adjusting. And just in case she needed help understanding his toddler speak, I translated a few words for her. Oh, and I needed to let her know that we've been working on 'time out' as a consequence. And... What was supposed to be a quick one-liner turned into a 30 minute dissertation about my son's strengths and weaknesses, suggestions for interventions should he not comply with the teacher's wishes, a list of favorite things that make him happy, and on, and on, and on. I even went back and apologized in the first paragraph and promised not to ever send her an email that long again.
I tried to justify my actions to myself, but really it was just my way of coping with the fact that I felt like I was abandoning my child by sending him to school. The first drop off was tearful, but I left feeling fairly confident that Tyler was in good hands.
Then, when I arrived to pick him up on the second day of school, I could hear the raised voice of one of the teachers through the two closed doors that led to the classroom. I walked in and quickly scanned the room, and this is what I saw:
- One child had completely lost his composure. He was banging on the gate that divides the room as though he were trying to escape from prison, calling for his mommy, snot and tears pouring down his face.
- My child was crying and following the teacher around, seemingly in need of comfort.
- The teacher's frustration was made obvious by her body language and tone of voice with the children.
- The teacher was not attempting to comfort either upset child.
We left, and I cried all the way home because I kept seeing my sweet boy in the rearview mirror, his eyes all red and swollen, and I could hear the whimpery breath-catching that happens after you've had a really long, hard cry. I felt like a terrible mother who had let her child down and left him in the care of someone who didn't care about his needs.
I couldn't help but wonder about this teacher. Why wasn't she comforting either child? Why did I walk in to find her raising her voice at them in frustration, rather than on her knees holding them in her arms? And why was she using sarcasm with two year olds? Of course they're playing in the sink - they're two and they've never had a sink at eye level before!
And then I had to take a moment and say to myself, "You have no idea what happened in that classroom before you walked in."
Maybe she had tried everything to comfort them. Maybe they had been crying nonstop for over an hour and she was about to lose her ever-loving mind. Maybe just before I walked in, one of them hit or pushed her in frustration, as I know my child has done to me before. Or maybe, just maybe, she has enough experience to know when toddlers need to be held, and when they need a firm voice to tell them to get a grip. At the end of the day, I have no way of knowing what transpired before I walked in. The only things I know for sure are that Tyler's school has a stellar reputation, and that I've heard only rave reviews from every friend whose child has attended.
This was the moment when the teacher-mommy paradox became my new reality. While I could reason through the teacher's point of view and feel fully confident that she was more than capable of handling her responsibilities without my quick-scan-of-the-room assessments, I was also now looking through the lense of a mother who has a responsibility to protect a tiny human being who can't protect himself.
Years ago, before kids were even on my radar, the most insulting thing someone could say to me as a teacher was, "Oh, you just can't understand because you don't have kids." I hated this oversimplification of my abilities. As an experienced educator who had clocked more hours of 'experience' with kids than any single one of my friends who were mothers, I felt that it was possible for me to understand.
But now I know with certainty that it is truly impossible to understand the feelings, hopes, fears, desires, judgements, or motives of a mother whose only priority is to protect her baby. I know that until you have children of your own, you cannot understand what it means to love something so much it hurts. I thought I understood this through my love for my husband, but it is a different feeling entirely, because you are responsible for your child in a way you will never be responsible for anyone else. And even when you're not responsible, say for the tears rolling down your child's cheeks, you feel like you are.
So here are my takeaways:
To the teachers: Be patient with parents. They love their children so much it hurts, so much that they sometimes cry just watching them sleep. Be kind to the hearts of mamas and daddies by taking good care of their children. Remember that the most important thing in the world to them is that their children are happy and loved. And don't forget to affirm their belief that their child is the most amazing human being ever created. It really hurts a mama's heart when someone else doesn't recognize her baby's greatness.
To the mamas and daddies: Be patient with teachers. Respect the neverending training that is required of them, and feel confident that they are well-equipped to meet your child's individual needs. Remember that just like you, the teacher wants what is best for your child. Remember that there is no way for you to know what happened when you weren't in the room, and you can't always count on your child to tell you.
To the childless: Be patient with those who tell you that you can't understand unless you have children. They're right. If you plan to have children, just wait. Someday you'll understand. And if you don't plan to have children, just try to put yourself in the shoes of those who do. You can't, but try anyways.
For two years, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that my child's needs were being met and that his greatness was recognized by the one who cared for him while I spent my days with other people's children. I knew that when he was upset, Gigi held and comforted him. And when I came home each day, she told me how wonderful and perfect he was and how much she enjoyed her day with him.
Three weeks into the school year, I have seen my child cry on his way into or out of school more days than I've seen him smile, and neither of his teachers has told me anything that makes me think they recognize his greatness. The thing is, I know that he's happy during the day when I'm not able to see it, because I hear the excitement in his voice when he talks about 'cool. And I know the teachers have to think he's wonderful even if they don't say it, because I know for a fact that he is.
The teacher-mommy paradox is a tricky one. My hope is that it has opened my eyes in ways that will help make me both a better teacher and mother. I hope this year that parents will feel confident that their children's needs are being met during the 8 hours they spend with me. I hope I'll remember to affirm my students' greatness to their parents. And I hope that I'll parent my child in a way that makes him great in the eyes of his teachers.
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