Favorite

A week of no blogging means a busy week here at home and school. But just to pacify myself that I did, indeed, blog this week, I'll quickly share one of my favorite things . . .

Sleepy boys in their beds, smelling of warm hair and flushed faces as I kiss them awake in the morning. So safe. All of the possibilities of the day ahead getting ready to stretch out before them. Even better? When a sleepy arm unfurls itself from under the cave of blankets to pull me further into the wake-up call. Eyes not even open, but still wanting their Mom even when they are eight and ten.

Feast or Famine -or-My Cup Runneth Over

Monday. First full day of the first full week of school. Walked into school at 6:48 to find two AP students already waiting for me outside of my office. Taught all day, used my prep time like a madwoman, had brief meeting with principal after school, was caught on way out the door by a colleague who needed help navigating a problem, picked up the boys, took them to get 10-yr-old's new viola, stopped at McD's so that he could change into football gear and 8-yr-old could do homework and get a snack, went to football, changed vehicles with husband coach, drove home, started making dinner, changed a load of laundry, took phone call from dear friend, daughter and roomate made suprise visit to get some sorority sister/stepmom advice, finally ate at 8:00, played phone tag and caught sister, solved the world's problem, called Mom to wish happy birthday, finished some school work, and dropped into bed at 10:20.

Such a far cry from two weeks ago when the days moved like molasses, and I felt so disconnected from the pulse and pull of the world. Monday's rush might have been a bit much, but I was in a place where it was good to be needed. It is only the begining of the year, and my energy and adrenaline are a bit high, but I will appreciate my current perspective (while I have it!) that my cup does indeed runneth over, in the loveliest sort of way, full of people who trust me to be there for them, and for that I am grateful.

Of Blogging and Running and Teaching

While out running Thursday morning before school, I composed an entire blog entry in my head. It was brilliant and witty and poignant and timely--all about how blessed I feel to be able to follow my teaching vocation in a great school with fantastic opportunities to push myself to excel in my classroom. But then school started. And then I took 10 -year- old to football practice, to pick out an instrument, daughter to college, 8- year -old to birthday party, and now, 72 hours later I'm tired, and I can't for the life of me remember what I was going to write. Something about how if one thinks too much about the awesome responsibility it is to be a teacher, the realization can be paralyzing. Also, I think I was going to discuss when I finally figured-out the difference between teaching and learning. And, somewhere in all of that glorious musing I was going to offer that every time I think of the title of my Dad's favorite book, "To Serve Them All My Days" (a book about a teacher at a boys' prep school) I get the goosebumps just running the words through my head. Oh yes, and there was something about being a sucker for teacher movies--you know, Dead Poet's Society, Mr. Holland's Opus, Stand and Deliver . . . Unfortunately, all of this was much more coherent at 5:00 am while I was pounding through 2 miles in the dark. This strikes me as akin to lesson planning in the shower, grading papers at fall baseball practice, and buying justonemorething for my classroom each time I stop at Target. Hm. School has indeed started. (Hip Hip!)

Of bathrobes and baseball hats

Little Man, as we call our 8-yr-old, came downstairs this morning in his bathrobe and baseball hat as though it were the most obvious outfit in the world-- which brought me back to late yesterday afternoon when the closing hymn of Mass had just sounded its final chord, and 8-yr-old turns to me and says, "Hey, do you think that we could go play baseball?" As if that, too, was the most natural thing in the world-- to turn from Communion to The Ball Diamond-- as if they are both some how equally sacred. Oh. Yes. To my 8-yr-old they are. I turned to him laughing and said, "Is there ever a time when you're not thinking about or wanting to play baseball?" Nonplussed, he replied, "Nope, I would even play baseball with a rolled-up sock in the Dominican Republic." When I started laughing, delighted at his witty comeback, he launched into a precis about how Sammy Sosa grew-up learning to play this most holy of sports. He then started explaining to his brother that Sammy and his friends were so poor that they even used cut-out milk jugs for gloves.

This little foray into 8-yr-old's encyclopediac mind is not our family's first. When we were on vacation in Pittsburgh driving through the West Homestead neighborhood, 8-yr-old began rattling off statistics about the Homestead Grays. Um, who are they? Well, they were a Negro League Team who boasted Jackie Robinson on their roster once-upon-a-time. How about the only player to die of a baseball to the head? Care to know what each MLB ballpark used to be called before the days of corporate overreaching? My little bat boy could fill you in.

What doesn't this kid know? Well, right now, I'm thankful that he doesn't know much about steriod abuse, that he doesn't understand the ridiculously alarming salaries that some of his heros rake in, or what happens to a man when his dreams of baseball stardom don't quite pan out. For right now, his games with neighborhood friends at The Corner, and his books and magazines full of glossy pictures of peaceful stadiums and larger-than-life "Caseys At Bat" suffice to fill his every waking, and I dare say, sleeping moment. And I suppose, at the risk of being blasphemous, it is okay with me that for my little obsessed man that Babe Ruth and Roger Maris sit at the same table as Jesus and Mary and St. Francis. Jesus did say, "Suffer the little children to come unto me" and my guess is that they maybe he wouldn't mind playing a little ball too.

Be careful what you pray for

Only one other time since the birthing of this blog have I written about a mess, and since this IS "themessilife" I have obviously been slacking in my tell-the-world-how-it-really-is duties. In order to remedy such a horrible bit of laziness, and to reflect on how God's ways are not our own--especially when it comes to answering prayers,  I thought I might share the mess of a day I just had.

Began with over-sleeping so there was no 2 mile run for me. Shouldn't be a problem, except that I've already gained at least 7 pounds this summer and the pants just strained a little too much around the hips this morning. Lovely start. Feeling messy and frumpy.

Once at school with two boys who didn't really want to be there, I thought I would make my way down my to-do list like an OCD rockstar. Well, the listing-making gods were having none of it. Tried to put something away in the book room only to discover that 12 more boxes of #$!@#! books had been delivered, waiting patienly for me to put them on shelves. Which was a problem because the last time I spent eight hours (yep, count 'em) putting away massive shipments of books (1300 to be exact) I THIOUGHT THAT WAS ALL THAT WAS COMING, so I organized accordingly. Nope. Now there are more books, and no shelf space. I was thrilled. After an hour of sweating and sneezing in dirty book room (whoa, that sounded more interesting that it was) I once again thought to approach my to-do list. This time I was going to cover my bulletin board in new fun fabric. But, um, it was too short. There were absolutely no cuss words coming out of my mouth as I stretched, cut, stapled and fumed my way through that little endeavor. At that point, I thought maybe I could really make some headway on the list, but um, nope. I had already spent two hours at school and was needed at home by daughter.

Once at home, sustained by some protein-packed yogurt, and boys trundled off to play baseball with friends, I thought, okay, NOW I might accomplish something. This time though, the weather gods let loose a torrential downpour so I took off to rescue my boys and the neighbor boys. At the ball field I saw in front of me four muddy children with grass-covered shoes and bikes covered in sand and dirt. I managed to convince them to ride their dirty little selves back to our house and play basketball instead.

Okay. NOW I could focus, type up a syllabi or two . . .until one little friend came in to use the restroom. And then came out saying, "Um, I flooded the bathroom." And, he was right. Two inches of water covering the entire floor, the toliet churning like a waterfall, and the hallway carpet already soaking it up--and I don't think if I need to describe what "it" is.

I think maybe God heard my prayer--the one about being released from my OCD?

The Penultimate Week

I remember learning the word "penultimate" sometime in late grade school, and thought it was definitely a word whose usage by me (ack! Passive voice!) would display to the world my brillance and pithy ability with language. Okay, so none of the above has come true, however, I still think it is a fun word, and it is indeed the penultimate week before school . . . so, I'm usin' it by gum!

10-yr-old and Coach Dad are back at football, so for at least part of the family, all is right with the world. The jury is still out on whether or not he'll be quarterbacking again. According to Offensive Coordinator Dad, he is probably the top candidate, however, 10-yr-old is very concerned that he "earn" the spot--lest someone think he leading because his Daddy is coaching. So proud of that little man! Who taught him to process like that?!

8-yr-old is using the white board to count down the days until school starts. He is bored, and is using his free time to tell me this. Over, and over, and over again. He did however finish reading all of the books of the baseball card series he became obsessed with this summer, and has begun reading Harry Potter. He told me that he thinks he is "finally ready" to read the series.

The Mom of the house is making lists of her lists, I believe, somehow thinking that perhaps in doing so, the items on the list, such as: lesson planning, decorating classroom, making seating charts . . . will somehow take care of themselves. Funny what eight weeks off will do to a teacher.

But, there is chicken in the crockpot, flowers hanging on for dear life on the back deck, school supplies nestled in their respective backpacks, and fall sports previews in the newspaper. All sure signs that it is the second to last week of summer vacation.

Parents

Breaking all of the rules of essay writing here. I have no well-developed thesis tucked into beautiful prose to slyly unfold in front of my reader. Simply want to say that it is fun to hang out with my parents. They were here yesterday mostly to go to a minor league baseball game with my buddies, but we managed to sneak in some good conversation before the game, in-between the obnxious announcer, bad music, and piercing air horn being manned by the socially inept gentleman behind us, and for a bit once we arrived home. Nice to want to be with family. Even more lovely to be known by them. And better still for all of us to still keep choosing each other.