The Diabolical Floof

On a sunny day in August 2010, we decided to adopt a cat. The boys, at that time 4 and 6 years old, wanted nothing more than a Tabby kitten. I told them we’d have to see what they had at the shelter, but they were adamant about a Tabby kitten. We walked into the smell of way too many animals and after noses pinched, we started looking into the cages. One kitten among all of the cats, and he was an orange Tabby. Eight weeks old with a meow that begged to differ, coarse hair, and a bit of an attitude. However, my boys wanted a Tabby kitten so we chose him. Perhaps he chose us. Henry Griffith Kittlelands. Eight weeks old and ready to go. We brought him home and I quickly explained to my boys that kittens and cats rule the house and we should let him explore his new environment. He smelled everything. He was afraid of the couch and kind of freaked out by the floor-length blinds but started checking out the staircase one step at a time. He wandered upstairs to the cat box in the bathroom and walked away. I picked him up and put him in the litter just so he would know where it was and he marched around a bit and then jumped out. This continued throughout the evening and my children were in love with this little orange ball of fluff and sass. Later that evening, after I put the small boys to bed, I could not find Henry anywhere. I searched high and low throughout our townhome and started freaking out that I couldn’t find him. Finally, an hour of anxious panicking later, I found our new kitten asleep across my son’s head, purring boisterously, knowing he was home. It’s weird, after that, his fur became floofy soft. Like all he needed to bring out his softness was a family to love him.

Then the toe biting began. I wanted to kill him. Each time I would fall asleep at night he would find my toes above or below my blankets and bite them. Not my children’s, mind you, just mine. I kept tucking my toes beneath the blankets, but still, they were bitten. He grew out of that phase in a few weeks only to find a new fun obsession. I had one of those iPod chargers with an alarm clock attached and Henry figured out how to press the button to turn the music on. The first two times he did this, I assumed it was my alarm going off in the morning. I would get up and feed him and then realize it was 4AM. Perplexed profanity. How could he figure this out? On the third morning, I woke up just enough to see Henry standing on my dresser and then gently pressed his paw onto the alarm button of my phone. Like he just sat there and took one paw and pressed. Motherfucker woke me up five days in a row. I had to finally plug my phone into another charger just to keep him from waking me up. Diabolical, perhaps. After that came opening the cupboard with the cat treats, turning on the tv, also at 4am, opening my drawers but only pulling out my underwear, and of course, the Great Hamster Massacre of 2010. After this, the diabolical moniker would be infamously etched into history. 

Ah, the hamsters. At first, he would just sit atop the cage and poke his paws gingerly into it to sort of freak the hamsters out.  Hamstersaurus Rex, Phineas Schnicklefritz, and Kevin (see earlier blogs cuz I can’t even go into explaining the names again) would freeze and then go back to the hamster wheel of anxiety (caused mine, not theirs) and try to ignore him. Little did they know their days were numbered as he was plotting their demise. We still thought he was a cute and adorable, sweet, but very smart Tabby kitten...

One fateful night, Henry woke me up with way too many kisses, licking my nose almost raw. I said a polite thank you for the affection and then promptly put him outside my bedroom, closing the door. I realized he had left his cat toy on my pillow and went to grab it to bring it to him, when I realized it was indeed Phineas, dead on my pillow. Oh goody, a cat present. I immediately wrapped Phin in a towel, put him in a shoebox, and brought him downstairs to the patio. As I came back into the living room, I knew if I looked at the hamster cage I would know what he had done. All energy went into not looking but my curiosity that should have killed the cat got the best of me. The hamster cage was bent inwards and all of the hamsters had disappeared into the night. I knew Phin was the first victim and wondered when the other corpses would appear. I knew Henry had killed them all and it was just a matter of time to find their cold, dead, hamster bodies. Ugh. Superduper ugh. 

In the next day and a half, the other bodies were found. Rex by Henry’s food bowl and pieces of Kevin had been bandied about for me to step into. Yuck and a half. My children, as wonderful as they were when small and naive decided Henry just needed a "time out". Me and ridiculous Gen X parenting...

Sigh...perhaps diabolical feline needed a friend. My friend, Terri the Vet, suggested that between the biting of toes and the killing of hamsters, perhaps Henry needed his own kitten. Enter Maurice Navidad. Black Tabby kitten was brought by Santa’s Kitten Elves because my boys, although Jewish, were very good boys.

Maurice was five weeks old and so tiny he could fit in one of my hands. Nothing but bright green eyes and a plop of fur. The tiniest floof ever. In the light, you could see his Tabby stripes and he was a puffball of yumminess. Henry seemed to agree. When he met Maurice he didn’t growl or hiss; he just seemed to know that this was HIS kitten and boy did he love him so. They grew up together with my children. Scars from the cats and from life, we all grew up together as one big floofy happy family. 

I remember when my now-husband, Cameron, came to my house for the first time. Henry loved to meet people because he figured all people would want to rub his deliciously soft belly. Maurice, on the other hand, was frightened of most people and hid under the couch until they left. However, when Cameron came over the first night, not only did Henry wrap himself around his tall legs, Maurice came to sit on his lap. It was not even a first date and yet I knew he could be trusted around my family because Marice deemed it so. When your shyest animal says a man can be trusted, well that was the man for me and my kids. (I love when the cats are right). I think when Henry saw this 6’5” ginger in front of him, he figured he was the best gigantic orange Tabby in the world.

Fast forward a few more years and we welcomed Velma Luna Theodosia into our family. Luna is a Russian blue Tabby and a fabulous diva. Maurice fell in love and because of that Henry didn’t want anything to do with her at first. Terri the vet still can’t figure out why Maurie, who was neutered before he was brought to us, mounted her in that special way. Seriously, you can take the cat out of the kitten but if it’s true love…

Anyway, Henry stopped sleeping on me at night and kept his distance from us all. He had other things on his mind, such as teaching himself how to pee on the toilet and figuring out how to open the sliding glass doors, and of course, constantly talking to me about the world and the treats he needed in his bowl. 

Time passed on and the threesome grew to be the closest knit threesome I have ever seen. They would have meetings that I could only wonder about and then things in the living room would be moved to fit their liking. It was disturbing but in a good way. The three cats loved each other so much. Henry was in charge of things, the most delightful alpha male who made decisions I wasn't always privy to. I had no say in what he decided so I decided to pretty much let him be in charge. I was just glad he wasn’t a republican. 

Then, the pandemic hit, and lockdown began. At first, the three cats kept looking at us as if to say “Why are you still here? We have things to do that don’t involve you. Will you be leaving soon because we can’t get our stuff done?” Then after a few months, they were like “You’re not allowed to leave anymore because you make the most divine napping areas when you’re supposed to be in class.” My students loved my cats. Unfortunately, my cats were there more than my students were. When I say my cats were “there” I mean like on my laptop or lap or sometimes both at the same time, “there”. You try teaching rhetorical analysis while a Tabby takes up residence on the keyboard. 

Fast forward to two nights ago. Actually, three weeks ago when Henry decided to start sleeping on me again. I would lay on my side and he would perch on my curves and fall asleep. Even when my middle-aged hips were screaming at me to turn over, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. He was so happy, purring voraciously on me; I would just lay there wide awake until he moved. He would then sleep on my head, my back, back to the curve of my hips, all of a sudden totally connected to me again. I should have known...

Anyway, two nights ago,  I went up to the roof to sit by the fire with a well-deserved glass of wine after a day of teaching high school and I called (literally I called my child on his cell phone) to see if he was doing his homework. 

“Henry is snuggling on me. He hasn’t done that in a while so I’ll do my homework in a bit”. There was such a smile to my son’s voice, I couldn’t say no. We have a rule in our family that when a cat is napping on you, you stay there so they can nap. (see above paragraph) And we enjoy the snuggliness of said cats as well as the excuse to not do anything but be a human floof bed. Seriously, that’s like the best rule. When cats snuggle and nap on your lap like a weighted blanket, you totally do not move. 

Five minutes later, my son ran up frantically screaming for me to come down because something was wrong with Henry. I ran downstairs to find my favorite orange feline not moving. I have been trained in CPR so I tried it on him and several minutes of chest compressions and blowing into his tiny mouth...nothing helped. I felt myself cry out in disbelief. I didn’t want to believe it, but he was gone. I held the limpness of his body in my arms and cried. He had been there through all of my children’s childhood growing up with them and being a staple in our home. We all had scars from his love and temper and Henry-ness, and now he was gone. Dead. Cold. Nothing. It was more than I could bear. How could he be gone? He ate a ton of food and snuggled us that day, and then...nothing. He was gone. My heart broke into a million pieces as I wrapped him in one of my son’s old baby blankets. I put him in an Amazon box because those were his favorites. Never mind the expensive cat beds we bought, all he wanted was a big Amazon box. I have a million pictures of him in Amazon boxes. Those were what he wanted to nap in. That or a pizza box. If there was a pizza box anywhere in our house he would find it and sit on top of it and take a nap. It amazed me how much he loved boxes. And naps. Maybe he was a sleepy UPS driver in his past life.

I called a place, the first place I saw online, The Rainbow to Heaven people. So sweet to me as I cried on the phone to them. $400 later they were on their way to pick up Henry. They had this little gurney for him and they were so respectful and kind. Before they got here, Dash and I held him and told him his life story. I stroked his soft belly. It was cold. How could this be? How could he have gone so fast? I didn’t want to leave his side. After we put him on the gurney, we all said goodbye. My husband, a giant ginger cat himself, was inconsolable. They had such a special bond that even after death, will never be broken.

I can’t believe he died on my son’s lap. I told Dash what an honor that was. Henry picked a place to die and it was him because he loved him. He loved him. You could reverse either pronoun and it wouldn’t matter because both love each other. 

I guess this is Henry’s eulogy. His ashes will be brought back to us and we’ll put them in Cameron’s garden because, besides my squishy curves, that was his favorite spot. 

Tonight I put on a sweatshirt to go upstairs to sit by the fire and couldn’t figure out what the horrible smell was until I realized I was wearing the same shirt when I held him to say goodbye. Not really a smell I wanted to remember. I thought of keeping the sweatshirt as a keepsake, ya know, never washing it? But it’s a really cute hoodie and I’d like to wear it again, minus the smell. (No matter how sad I am right now, omg, dead cat smells like dead cat.)

Okay, I’m an English teacher so I desperately need a theme to understand why I have written this. Loving people, even if they’re cats, sucks because it hurts when they die? No. Let’s be more thoughtful. Loving people, even if they’re cats, is wonderful because they enrich your lives and even though you are sad when they die, they live on in your heart. Yah, I like that better. Much better. Even if my hoodie still smells real, really, really bad. 

Goodbye, my ginger Tabby floof of yumminess. You will stay in our hearts and the stories of your diabolical adventures will keep you infamous forever.

Part Two: Have Fun, Be Safe Or Going Home 125 lbs Lighter and Yet I Still Feel Bloated

3pm EST. We land. I have napped, watched a terrible movie but it had Sam Heughan in it so who cares. Nothing says relax and unwind like a hot ginger Scottsman. My husband is a ginger with some Scottsman in him and so I bought him a kilt and well...ya know...life is good. But this is not about my love for my Ginger Highlander or Outlander…yes, son going to college...yes, that’s what I’m writing about...

After we arrived at our hotel we went walking through campus. It’s a city campus so it took a very humid, 90-degree long time to find the damn place. I was dressed in black pants and a shirt that in hindsight, may have made me look thinner, but not the best weather choice. Although I probably lost about five pounds in sweat. When we saw the outside of his dorm it began to kick in for reals. (as my students say) Like for real for real. His silence and deer-eyes were only surpassed by the sweat that had pooled in my shirt and pants and socks and bra. I would address his feelings, I thought, as soon as there was air-conditioning. I thought my hot flashes were gross and damp, but for now, it seemed there was no way to tell if I was having one or not. “I am just this sweaty and gross and hot”, I said to my sweaty brain. This is the weather and not me. So weird. 

Anyway, we found a little farm-to-table restaurant and I got some water and food into my wide-eyed-soon-to-be-freshman-son. Hopefully, he would talk to me, but we only discussed the local politics (poli sci major) and what sights we would see. He said we’d talk later. I guess, no I KNOW, seeing his dorm made it all real. For both of us. Would I still have to be strong for both of us now that he is a burgeoning adult? Never mind; I knew the answer. 

Getting back to the hotel, we watched a movie, played on our phones, and talked a little. “Overwhelmed,” he said. “Scared out of my mind,” I thought. “It’s a lot to take in,” he said. “OHMYFUCKINGGOD” I thought. Okay, a good night's sleep, tours of the city and some shopping and we’ll...be...fine...sigh...

Tomorrow is the day we move in. I mean he moves in. I don’t know why I keep saying “we” about his college experience. We’re moving in. We’re taking this class or that. We’re buying a green lamp for our dorm. (It’s really cute). Tonight instead of both of us retreating to our computers to watch TikTok or the newest episode of White Lotus (staring Steve Zahn who I went to high school with and was the Ado Annie to his Will Parker) (Yes, name dropping is beneath me, but Steve is so amazing in this, I had to put it in there) we played gin-rummy and he kicked my ass six games to one. What the hell? I didn’t even try to lose. I have decided to take this as a sign from the universe and it means he’s ready to win and be on his own and be an adult and, whatever. Ugh. I hate losing. 

It’s almost midnight and our move-in time is at 8am. He’s just gone to shower and I’m sitting here, hoping my melatonin will kick in soon, thinking this is the last night that I get to say “go to sleep” and he actually has to listen. Every night since he was born, I would say, “Sleep well, my angel”. Every night no matter where he was. And yes, I’ll keep saying it to him, but now it just may not be EVERY night. Wow. Just...wow. How? How is this possible? He was watching “Thomas the Train '' and “The Backyardigans” and that seems like a week ago. A few years ago I wrote a blog called “Magic Mommy Boo-Boo Kisses'' about his seventh birthday. His SEVENTH birthday. That was like two days ago! I can’t do this. I’m going to get on the plane on Sunday and think “What am I missing? What did I leave behind??” and I’ll realize it’s my oldest child.

Breathing. OMG...okay...I’m not going to cry. 

Going to watch reruns of Outlander and fall asleep. Seriously… sigh…

Moving Day. The Road of Trials

At 5am I woke up with a start and was convinced we’d missed our move-in time. Shaking and heart pounding, I saw his little face in the other bed in the hotel room and he looked so not ready for all of this. Oh wait, that’s me. I’m projecting. 

I lay there for a few hours thinking about the things I would miss about my eldest and how I couldn’t wait to see my youngest and how annoying I was going to be to him with just ONE son to mother until our actual alarm went off and then both of us just kind of looked at each other.  

“Okay,” I said, “Let’s get moving!” (pun intended).

I went down to the lobby to grab the luggage cart, realized I had forgotten my key (needed for the elevator) texted my son to come to get me. He, of course, grabbed the Metro card instead, leaving both of us locked out of our hotel room. The manager smiled under his mask and gave us a new key. I swear I heard him mutter “Freshmen parents” under his breath. Our uber arrived and we made our way to his dorm. Neither of us could eat and I really felt like I was going to puke in the uber, but I was doing my best to hold it together and well, down. 

As we grabbed all of his belongings, the deluge began. Not of tears, but of rain. The weather app said there was a 10% chance of rain.  10%!! ONE OUT OF TEN CHANCE OF RAIN. We looked at each other and began to laugh. The umbrella was already packed. Sigh...

“Road of Trials?” He asked. 

“On with your hero’s journey!” I said. We brought everything up to his cute little room. We both just stood there. 

I put my hand on his shoulder and asked, “How are you doing?”

He sighed. “I’m ready for this, mom.” He said. 

“I know you are,” I said. “You can go back to the hotel and I think I can do the rest of the move on my own. I need to stop depending on you so much. I’m ready.” 

This was our conversation almost verbatim. The words I wanted to hear and dreaded to hear all at the same time. I guess it was time for me to be ready too.

Back at the hotel in my college-mom-swag, I was packing up my stuff to head home. Sans child. He turns 18 in two weeks so he’s still a ‘child’ to me. Breakfast with him tomorrow and then back to California. I sat in my empty hotel room fidgeting like an ADHD kid. Didn’t even want to watch Outlander. So, I decided to go for a walk (because we’ve only been averaging five miles a day so maybe I’d toss a few more miles in there for good measure). I actually remembered to bring my umbrella for that ridiculous 10% chance of rain and as I stepped outside, I was ensconced in a sunshower - the perfect metaphor for all of the parents dropping off their kids for their freshmen year. (And actually all of those sophomores who didn’t get to go to ‘real school’ during the pandemic, but unfortunately they’re being treated like Jan from The Brady Bunch because they’ve been to college, just not like real college. Totally sucks for them and they deserve a welcome too!)

Anyway...back to my metaphor. Sunshower, blah, blah, blah.  The sky, a beautiful endless array of blue and white with nothing but the potential for brighter days ahead. However, it’s raining like how it feels in my heart right now. The dichotomy of motherhood. 

Have fun. Be safe. I love you, Max.

Part One: HAVE FUN BE SAFE Or Sending your first kid to college and not curling into the fetal position on his dorm room floor.

It’s four days before my son leaves for his freshman year of college. He’s chosen an amazing school with merit scholarships because he’s awesome and financial aid because I’m a teacher. 

I always told my boys that they could do anything they wanted and be anything they wanted as long as they put the work in. And he did. 4.3 GPA, academic decathlon medalist, a good kid with good friends. His friends, actually both of my kids’ friends, are amazing. As a parent, you hope when they reach their teenage years they don’t do what YOU did in your teenage years. Oh dear god, I have apologized to my parents repeatedly. (Again, I’m so sorry for...well...yah, you know.) However, my kids both have these collections of friends who are aware of the world around them and actually want to make it a better place. They have fun together, they created this whole crew during the pandemic and stuck together playing games online and keeping each other sane. They are all so supportive of each other too. It’s weird but good. For now, I can be sated in the knowledge that the influences on my children are relatively positive and not destructive or ruinous. Of course, I could be totally wrong, but as a high school teacher, I’ve seen crappy teenage influences (mostly from students and not from teachers who are still employed) I’m pretty sure I’m right. I hope. I think. No, I’m good. My husband, Cameron likes to ask me if I’d rather be happy or right and I always answer “both”.  Sigh...

Two days to go. He’s packed. Okay, he packed and I checked his three suitcases and then we had a little meeting and I sat on his bedroom floor and began pulling crap from under his bed. That was an hour of my life I won’t get back. “Oh my god! I’ve been looking for that!” was heard throughout our household. Oh goody. More stuff to pack. I taught him how to roll shirts and proper shoe placement and the phrase “We’ll just order it on Amazon” popped up again and again. Hmmm….I need to google a Target near his dorm…By the way, I gave him my other big suitcase and now he’s obsessed with weighing each one so it’s not over one hundred pounds. OMG, do you know how much it costs to check baggage?! WTF? Why does it cost $30 to check one bag but $220 to check three? I am afraid of math but even I can figure out that THAT is just stupid. 

One day left. He said goodbye to his girlfriend of over four years. Think about that for just a moment: four years ago he was in eighth grade. They’ve been friends since six grade and have been connected at the hands, staring into each other’s eyes and telling each other how cute the other was for four years. They are the most amazing couple and they adore each other so much; they inspire each other to do their best; she did Academic Decathlon because of him (and won a gold in speech because she’s amazing and beautiful inside and out) and he joined the salsa team. Umm...dance, not the stuff on tacos. He doesn’t really like sauce on tacos but man, he likes to dance. Their last performance (still recorded because of the pandemic) they danced together and if they stay together, I’m totally playing that at their wedding. I once joked that good thing we had the pandemic so they would be used to face timing each other every night. Neither of them found that amusing. Seriously. They will be approximately 2852 miles from her college to his. Yah...I know. My heart hurts too. Her mom and I would love this to be it and for long-distance to work and all of that. I just have to wait it out I guess and hear how it goes. I want nothing more than for his heart NOT to break. And that’s basically all I want. Be happy and healthy and loved. That’s it. The rest is frosting.

4am. My alarms have been going off since 3:30am but I only went to bed three hours ago after sitting on my roof contemplating my motherhood over a glass of wine or three, waking up is hard to do-ooh-ooh-ooh. I sat by my firepit last night and went over checklist after checklist, his and mine, wondering what I have forgotten. His little brother (not so little - actually taller than me - only the cats are shorter than me) decided to stay up until we left. I think it was just the excuse he needed to play video games all night with his pals before his school started. I let it go. Pick your battles. He bought his big brother a going away D&D gift (seriously, I have no clue what the hell you do with twenty-sided dice) hugged him, and promptly fell soundly asleep on the couch the second we started heading out the door. 

All packed up, his stepdad, my wonderful husband, Cameron, was packed up at 2am because he couldn’t sleep. He said it was just insomnia, but I know his love for this kid who chose him as a dad was so great, there was no way he was sleeping that night. You don’t get to pick your parents, but sometimes you get to pick the people who actually want to be there for you and Cam is there for them. So fabulously, incredibly there. He didn’t have to be and yet his love and support for them is beyond anything I could have asked for. I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t think he’d be a good step-father or “Step-Cam” as the boys have always called him.  We could only afford to have me take my son to college this far away from home (hello teacher salary) so leaving was so hard for my stoic Viking. However, after he dropped us at the airport, my son realized he had left his passport. And his social security card. And his laptop charger. And my sanity. And so Cam and his son got to hug one last time and he didn’t even complain when he had to come back to the airport twice.

To be continued...

Mother's Day Mani-Pedi

 What do I feel about mother’s day? It's a day where my kids are not allowed to fight with each other. I get a mani-pedi, and maybe someone else cooks. Not really guessing anyone else will cook because no one knows how to cook. My kids said they would like to learn to cook but that doesn’t seem to have panned out. They have cooked when they need to do a school assignment that requires it and that is always a mess in a half. Max making bread. Hehehe. I made him knead the dough for 10 minutes and it still didn’t taste like actual bread. Dash used to make pretzel bread. However, I was the one who had to supervise and clean up the massive spills of baking soda water that accompanied the cooking of said pretzels. I cook. That’s it. When I ask my husband to cook, they get take-out or bake some breaded chicken from the freezer. So, no one cooks but me. I usually love cooking but sometimes I really don’t. I try to make healthy meals but when I say, “Hey! Let’s try some squash blossoms or cauliflower! Yay!” I am brutally rebuffed. My kids hate vegetables. I guess that’s my fault, threatening them with broccoli all of these years. Who would have known they would have taken that seriously! I have tried everything and usually end up hiding veggies into their actual meal. That works. You can put cauliflower in anything and they have no idea. But now Max is going off to college in the fall so he won’t eat veggies unless a girl threatens him with them, I guess. Crap, he’s probably going to live on pizza. Freshman 15, watch out.

They’re getting me a mani-pedi for tomorrow and that’s what I want. There will be flowers and “I love yous” and hopefully some cleaning of our house without me actually asking, but I doubt it. 

Mother’s day is a wonderful Hallmark holiday where there is brunch and the threat of being nice because it has been mandated. With that said, my children have always been good at writing cards for me, poetry with misspelled words, sentiments that only we as a family understand. And I love each and every moment of it. They have this mandated (yes I know I keep using that word) obligation to make me feel special on one day of the year, but they don’t seem to know that I feel special all year long because they are my kids and I love them. They make me feel special when they share their thoughts on life. They make me feel special when they share their deepest secrets with me. They make me feel special when they tell me they love me and quietly kiss my forehead to say goodnight to me. They make me feel special when they know I’ve had a bad day and offer hugs. They make me feel special when they offer to reach things off the high shelf because they can now reach them without a stepstool. They make me feel special when they can access things on my phones that I had no idea existed. They make me feel special when they let me read to them from my Facebook memories from when they were little and couldn’t reach the high shelf. My children make me feel special most of the time. And I wouldn’t have mother’s day without having them. And no matter how much sleep I lose worrying about them or no matter how I blame them for the stretch marks on my stomach, they love me for me. Their imperfect mother. Do I need a day that reminds me of this? Absolutely yes! Manis and pedis for everyone!! And hopefully some snuggles.

x

Teacher, teach thyself.

I haven’t written in a few years because someone was metaphorically standing over me with a scowl and it was no longer fun to write.  However, I realized tonight that I always tell my students to write in their journals that I have given them, when they feel things, any things, meaningful or not.  Write them down, I say.  Don’t shy away from what you are feeling because you will learn from it, I say.  Face your fears and realize that by writing you may figure out a few things, I say.

Well, tonight, I’m doing just that.

I am addicted to Facebook.  There.  I said it.  I owned it.  I’m good with that.  Most of you reading this are addicted to Facebook also because you are reading my blog on Facebook, so ya know, there’s that.  There’s nothing wrong with this.  I think.  Although sometimes I think I really don’t need to see your dinner before you eat it and some of you post way too many non-relevant YouTube videos.  Not that I’m complaining.  The downside of Facebook is that I have found out three people have died in the past year by simply logging on.  Seriously, it’s ridiculous.  I log on to post some snarky reflection on a disastrous yoga class and Bam!  I find out someone I cared about is dead while standing in line at Nordstrom Rack.  (The lines are long when you can’t find some random green-shirt person to check you out so I get bored).  Because of this, I have put back serious sales items.  One cannot just stand in line at Nordstrom Rack whilst crying just to purchase a pair of Betsy Johnson pink leopard pumps that are 70% off.  Even I can’t do that.  The sad thing is that they are never there when you go back after you have stopped crying.  Sigh…

Today whilst on Facebook, I saw that one of my amazing high school students from four years ago graduated from college.  I posted how proud of her I was.  She and her twin sister (who is also graduating) will probably never know how amazing I thought they were in high school; they are the kind of students teachers hope for, wish for.  I loved having these two girls in my classes.  I loved watching them grow and blossom and then after they graduated from high school (and I let them “friend me”) watching them blossom into women who will hopefully take over the world or at least add to it with their immense presence and fabulousness.  One of them wrote back to me about the influence I had one them.  Her eloquent words made me cry and made realize a few things.

Being a teacher is like being a combination of a pit bull, a punching bag and a white wall.  You push and push and hope your students learn and of course (groan) do really well on all of those new sparkly Common Core tests.  You yell (hopefully not a lot), you take their bullshit and disrespect and hope they learn from how they treated you (after a detention or two) and the reaction you gave them (death stare) .  You talk and lecture and teach and then get the wonderful questions like “What are we doing?”” and “Was there homework?”  I’m thinking of having my favorite statement of “I wasn’t listening” turned into a tattoo or a billboard to hang outside my classroom.  I’m teaching The Stranger right now and can’t help equate Camus’s absurdity of life to the sometimes absurdity of teaching.  My absolute favorite student statement has to be “I don’t get it”.  I then ask them to be specific and tell what exactly they “don’t get”.  I usually get the blank stare and a repeat of their comment.  I then repeat my comment and then, well, it just gets ugly.

I hate it.  I love it.  I will do anything I can to make them learn but occasionally have to throw in the towel when the absurdity of the apathy gets just too much for me.  I have actually asked some students if they are happy being in school.  The ones who show up every day but do no homework, don’t participate in class and don’t give a crap – those are the ones I ask if they are happy.  They can’t possibly be happy.  When I ask this question, the ones who aren’t actually happy usually begin trying to become the student they realize they could be and then they get an adorable journal from Barnes and Nobel in their favorite color.  It’s not a reward, just an idea or a suggestion for them.  It usually helps.  If not, at least they can use it as a coaster. 

The ones who say they “don’t care” just get mandatory tutoring, which of course, doesn’t really help, because, let’s face it they didn’t care to begin with then no pretty purple butterfly journal will amount to a hill of beans with them.  AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH.  It’s so frustrating to teach to people who don’t really want to be taught.  They become an elephant on my head.  Something who really shouldn’t be there and just gives me a headache.  I still try to make them become students.  I don’t give up that easily.  After ten years of teaching, I don’t give up without a fight or at least a parent conference. 

Usually the slackers in my classes like The Stranger because of the apathy and they find themselves engaged without really even realizing it, but unfortunately by then, it’s no use and they will still be taking summer school no matter how much work they actually do during this unit.  And I teach English for summer school so they will still be stuck with me.  Hah!  It’s a wonderful paradoxical irony.

I teach, on average, 160 students a year.  Teenagers.  Ugh.  They are their own paradoxes and don’t realize that until I teach philosophy whilst teaching The Stranger.  Remember back to when you were that age?  Too young to be an adult and too old to be a child.  Their parents want them to have responsibility but won’t let them stay our past ten o’clock on a school night.  They can shave but they can’t vote.  Seriously, they relate to the word paradox simply because they are one.

But then, with all of that, most of them do learn.  Something.  Well, something-ish.

But…will they remember it?  Will they apply it to college and adult life?  I have no freakin’ clue.  I have kids who are fighting in Afghanistan and in Iraq and this makes me begin to wonder if poetry and Shakespeare really play a part of their lives now.  It should, right?  Maybe?  Learning what figurative language is…will that really help them?  Ugh.  Of course, the crap I teach helps some of them at least get decent scores on their SAT’s and I’ve had kids get into UCLA, Brown, Occidental, Tuskegee, Clark, Spelman  – the list, thank goodness, is endless.  I had one kid, a retired drug dealer, who got a 2200 on his SATs with a 4.0 GPA.  He’s going to Berkeley.  I wrote one of his letters of recommendation.  He came and hugged me when he got his letter of acceptance.  I’m good with that.

Okay, here’s my point:  A childhood friend of mine died a few weeks ago (yep, found out about that one on Facebook too).  It seems that someone always dies while I’m in the middle of teaching The Stranger.  Maybe I should stop teaching it.  Anyway, here I am, in the middle of explaining absurdism and that Albert Camus said that life has no meaning and then someone who is MY AGE dies some stupid tragic death and I start looking over my life and wondering if there is any meaning at all.  Ya know, in my life.  Then I look at my children and realizing that despite all odds, I am raising two beautiful souls who are kind and intelligent and funny.  Who love to snuggle and make me wonder with amazement at the things of which they are amazed.  I look at the students I have pushed to go to college or to find their own way in the world, and they share their accomplishments with their old teacher on Facebook and I realize that I do have a legacy.  That I will be remembered as the crazy English teacher who wore high heels every day and made them write a million essays and do weird but poignant projects and made them think or consider or analyze things in a whole new way and made them care about their future and realize they need to be selfish with their education and destinies. 

That maybe, just maybe when I die there will be people who will live on after me who will remember, and push the next generation forward because Ms. Levine would have wanted that.  Maybe…

Tell you one thing – it sure felt good to write this.

I've earned this, damit.

Ah, Mother’s Day.  The only federally mandated holiday that I can totally get behind.  I'm not a big fan of Valentine's Day or Flag Day and it seems that every morning on the Channel 4 News there is a new “holiday”.  National Grilled Cheese Day, National Chocolate Day, National Peanut Butter and Jelly Day – why is it always food that is celebrated? Not knocking grilled cheese, just saying there are more important issues in the world.

Like today.  Today, of all days, to me, on so many levels, is a really important one.  Not just because I am a mother and feel the need to get a manicure and not feel guilty about it.  Not just because I have a mother and she feels the need to make me feel guilty if I don’t send a card.  But because, damit, I’ve earned it.  All mothers have.  

Ya know what?  I should be thanked for going through nineteen hours of labor and then squeezing out a person from a hole that really isn't big enough for that.  I should be thanked for getting pooped on and peed on and for kissing boo-boos and making ouchies and fevers all better.  For  diligently trying to catch vomit with my hands.  For being there for the first time they walked, the first time they read, the first time they hit a baseball and made it to third base.  For checking the closet for monsters, for nightmares and for being woken up at 4am because they needed to snuggle.  For being Megatron to their Autobots, for watching them battle in the backyard knowing full well that someone will end up crying five minutes later. For giggles and silliness and making all of their stuffed animals have conversations with them.  For making lunches for school every freakin day of the week and sneaking veggies into their dinners every freakin night of the week.  For singing Puff the Magic Dragon  and Dream a Little Dream seven times in a row, in one night.  For trying so hard to do 4^th grade math and giving up but finding someone who can figure that crap out.  For watching every episode of Pokémon.  Twice.  For teaching them that boys who can communicate their feeling are just as cool as boys who have awesome scars.  And my boys have both. 

But the funny thing is, is that none of us, moms I mean, never think we actually need to be thanked except for once a year when pictures are drawn and flowers are cut out from tissue paper and homemade cards are made and extra hugs are given and the phrase, “you get to pick the movie tonight, mommy” is said even though they secretly know you will still let them pick the movie.  I love this day.  I live for this little extra bit of thank you. 

The thing is, we don't really need to be celebrated.  We know that this “job” we have is what we have chosen and we love every minute of it.  Well, most minutes of it.  We know that we are the anchor parent, the one that is there, especially the single mommies who do it mostly on our own.  All of the sacrifices and sleepless nights are totally worth it; not just on this one day of the year, but every day of every season.  Personally, I would legally change my name to Mommy if I could. Yah, I know, that would be weird.  

Then, of course, I look at my sister whose children are teenagers.  Dealing with teenagers, well, I get paid to do that.  I look at my 10^th grade students and think two things:  1) thank goodness I don't have girls and 2) please, dear god, don't let my children turn into teenagers.  Let them just stay seven and nine, all small and cute and innocent.  Oh crap, they will be teens soon.  This blog will take on a whole new meaning when that happens.  Seriously, it is my job to turn them into good men. Magnificent, attentive, non-asshole men all by myself and then just hope for the best.  Let go, let god.  Oh goody, the control freak will then be forced to relinquish control.  Kill me.  Just kill me now. I am not sure how my sister does it.  And the funny thing is,  she has no idea how I do it either.

My youngest son drew this picture of me for my Mother's Day gift and gave it to me on Friday.  As he put it, it was me “teaching my students and reading him books and all of students got the right answer on the test”.  He painted me with the biggest smile and with my "teacher" glasses on, and I love so much how he sees me.  That my smile translates into who I am.  That my smile validates him which validates me so much more than any job or man or anything ever could.  Or will.  That to me is Mother’s Day. That to me is all I need today.

I don't have my children until the afternoon today because they are at their dad’s, so we will celebrate today when they get home with swimming in the sunshine and a movie that I get to pick.  I think I will choose Captain America, so at least I get to stare at Chris Evans.  At least got to sleep in on this lovely Sunday morning and be spoiled by someone who has no connection to my motherhood.  He just wants to celebrate me and I am alright with that.  Yep, this tired mommy could use a little pampering and I know just the wonderful man to do it. 

So, to all of my amazing mommy friends, and I must say, I do have the most incredible collection of mommy friends who support each other like sisters; and to my sister who is finishing grad school while raising teenagers with the assistance of a great deal of Tylenol, and to my mother who taught me the right way to be a mother (and yes, I still seek her advice, because she is usually right) – to all of you and all of my facebook mommies and the mommies who actually have missed reading my blog -- Happy Mother’s Day. 

Yes, tomorrow it is back to the same old shit, so enjoy your day.

Happy Lobster Mashed Potato Day

Normally, I spend the day before Thanksgiving cooking up a storm.  Roasting pumpkins, making dough, cookies and pie; saying nice things to my turkey before I cook him and setting the table with cute place cards made by my children.  I learned early on to set the table the night before a festive occasion.  My mother taught me that.  Of course she usually set the table a few days before a festive occasion which made my sister and I walk very carefully through the house as not to disturb the perfectly positioned table scenery.  But I have cats so they tend to want to walk and sniff anything new I have in the house, so the night before is good enough for me.  

The “good” dishes and accouterments come out; the pretty bowls which are older than me, the china from my parents wedding (I wanted theirs instead of registering for my own because nothing is cooler than my parent’s wedding china.  Plus, it’s like fifty years old now so they are now considered antiques.  My parents are going to hate that I am pretty much calling them “antiques” but hey, antiques have more value than when you say something is just old.), the Nambe service pieces that I reserve for such occasions and my Nanna’s silver flatware which is to be hand-washed only, damit.  I love cooking for Thanksgiving.  I love feeding people I love and making them eat seconds and then take left-overs home.  I love Thanksgiving.  Seriously.

This year, however, my friend Julie talked me into NOT cooking and instead, taking our kids to a restaurant.  I am torn by this.  It will be nice to have a clean kitchen and not have to scrape stuffing off of the floor and it will be nice not to spend hours on my feet making sure that everything is perfect.  I guess.  The care-taker in me thinks this to be peculiar.  The single-mother/teacher who is exhausted is kinda psyched about the whole thing.  Plus, there is an interactive cookie decorating area for the kids tomorrow which, let’s face it, THEY are psyched about.  I’ve seen the menu too and there will be lobster mashed potatoes and truffle mac and cheese.  Although, just the thought of lobster mashed potatoes and truffle mac and cheese will keep me on the treadmill for an hour after I take my Zumba class on Saturday just to work it all off my ass.

So, here’s the thing: I actually get to relax on my mini-vaca and enjoy dining rather than enjoy cooking.  I get to have a facial tonight and then sleep in and then get all dressed up and not have to clean one single dish.  Hmm…nice but still weird. 

But I digress. 

My favorite part of Thanksgiving, besides explaining to my children that Columbus didn't actually “discover” anything because one cannot discover a place that already exists (that would be like me saying I “discovered” Loehmann's) is The Grateful List.  My friend Terri (favorite vet in the whole wide world) gave my sister, my mother and me these beautiful bracelets called “Blessings Bracelets”.  They have four little thingies on them and every time you look down at  the bracelet you are supposed to count four blessings in your life.  My children and I already had a dinnertime ritual of saying the things we were grateful for during the day (an idea from my friend Hersh) and now we pass around the Blessings Bracelet at dinner and that way we just do four and then of course, we get to play with the cool bracelet.  I love what my children are grateful for.  They always say me, and that makes my heart melt each time, but then they add in things like Ninjas, Pillow Pets, and Legos.  Things like their imagination and sometimes even school (teacher’s kids) and of course, hedgehogs.  Yes, they are actually grateful for hedgehogs.  My oldest son has two stuffed animal hedgehogs, one named Lloyd and one name Lloyd Junior.  Because, ya know, if you are a hedgehog, well, you need a strong name, like…Lloyd.  I suggested Bob, but nope.  I do have a stuffed cow named Bob.  I won him at Legoland.  Very proud of Bob.  My children try to steal him, but I won him, damit, so he’s mine.

But I digress.  Again.

One of my favorite things about being a teacher (besides the great pay and the total respect of my students) is that on the day before Thanksgiving I ask what they, my dear students, are grateful for.  They come up with the greatest grateful lists ever.  They don’t hesitate about what they are grateful for either.  They mention their families and friends; One Direction and Justin Bieber (there was also a shout out for Led Zeppelin this year); Hello Kitty and the new Twilight movie; not wearing uniforms on the weekends and of course their favorite English teacher.  Yah, that last one usually is from the kids who are sucking up for a good grade.  They mention things like “I’m grateful for living with my mom again” and “I’m grateful for my dad being home” and then I read between the lines and realize how grateful I am for hearing that from them.  Maybe because it puts my life into perspective or maybe because I am just grateful that they are safe and happy today. Either way, I love hearing their lists.

Personally, I am grateful for my new school.  I miss my kids from my last school and some of the teachers there, but in this one, my classroom is huge, I have laptops for all of my kids, the staff is wonderful, and the principal actually likes me.  I am grateful for my kids, but if you read my blogs, you know that should go without saying.  They are the best part of me.  I am grateful that they still want to snuggle because they are growing up way too fast and soon they will not only not want to snuggle but make me drop them off a block away from their friend’s house on a playdate, which will no longer be called a playdate and just be called “hanging out” or yikes, a…date.  Oh, seriously, yikes.

Grateful, yes.  Restaurant with Lobster mashed potatoes, truffle mac and cheese and an awesome seafood platter, yes.  Writing my blog after way too long, yes.

Happy Thanksgiving.