Blocked

If you hadn't noticed, I have not been posting much in the past few months.

(Insert laugh track here)

It isn't for lack of trying. I sit down at a screen and start typing several times each week. Then I get halfway though a post and read it over and am all ugh about it. (Pretty sure that Ms. Styslinger is going to come back and green ink that sentence for me) I can't seem to write anything I am even interested in reading myself, let alone publishing. And I refuse to post anything that I think is garbage.

Where does that leave me, and my happy little blog? Well, I am going to take my massive case of guilt and writers block and vacation from writing for a bit. Not sure how long. I don't want to walk away from MMM forever. I love this space so much. No matter how tiny it is. It is my dusty corner of the interwebs. I hope by taking the pressure off, I will feel better and the cobwebs will clear. I promise I will return. Hopefully sooner rather than later. For now, I am still happily tweeting away. You can always find me there!

And it is snowing...

I remember gazing out the front doors of my one of my schools (I have a few I work in) and seeing little flakes fluttering down and promptly dashing into the office with glee.  It was snowing! Come and see! Everyone get excited! Snow!

This was in December.

Today I gaze out of my office window and see little flakes fluttering down and slump down lower into my chair.  It is snowing. Close the blinds.  Wrap me up in a blanket (straitjacket style).  Make giant mugs of coffee.  Make a blazing fire.  Go into denial. 

Needless to say, I am struggling with winter this year.  Last year we had nary a flake of snow.  It was warm(er) than your average Midwestern winter.  The sun shone down more than we saw clouds.  Our vehicles did not become encrusted with their normal salt layers.  I determined from my joy that yes, I could actually make a move to warmer climes and not miss the snow.  I think last winter is why I am struggling this year.  I am feeling desperate for some sunshine and warmth.  The snow is no longer looking pretty to me.  The wind is just cutting into my core and making me shiver.  I want to pull out my sandals and sundresses.

I know, I know.  I am whining.  I have to endure all of March yet.  I have to make it through four more tough weeks of darkness before we even start to see peeks of springtime around here.  Based on my 34 years of experience, I can do this.  But today, as it continues to flurry outside my window, I am feeling unable to face it.

At least Mel-O-Creme opens tomorrow.  And I can get a chocolate marshmallow malt, turn the heat in my car to full-blast and pretend it is July.

Busy

It is that time of year.  When everyone gets the grumpies.  When we all tend to answer questions about our days with a heaving sigh and sharp response along the lines of one of the following:

"Don't have time"
"Tired"
"Worn out"
"Over worked"

And my favorite of them all...

"I'm just so busy."

I know, I know.  I'm just as guilty as the next person of tossing out one of those easy responses when the skies have been dingy-gray flannel for days on end, the wind has been biting into every pore, the static electricity won't stop crackling, it seems as though spring will never come, and the salt dinge just won't quit getting on everything.  December may be the darkest month of the year, but February and March have to be the most depressing. 

So I am challenging myself to a few things.  First, to keep up with my new (aka: return to) fitness routine.  I've been running and hitting up the elliptical at least 3-4 times each week for a few weeks now.  Outside when the weather permits, and on the elliptical when it doesn't.  I loathe the indoor workouts, but I still feel better.  Second, keep on with better eating habits.  Every time I slip back into the junky foods I feel worse.  So these apples next to my keyboard are replacing the kettle corn I know is in the break room.  They will make my body and spirits happier. 

And the big challenge-to recognize that we are all busy.  But that does not mean my busy is more important than your busy.  And that I should focus on the positive.  Spread a little good energy around.  Maybe instead of the party-line answer to "How are you doing," I could shout out a better answer of "great!" or "happy to be here!"

We won't make it through to the sunnier spring days in one piece if we continuously snipe and bicker.  So let's ban together.  Let's focus on the good in our days.  Treat each other with grace and kindness.  Recognize we are all leading full and busy lives that are equally important.  Take deep breaths.  Lead with love.  We all have value-equally.

Mine Is Better Than Yours

If you're anything like me, you spent the majority of your Sunday evening watching the Grammy Awards-and tweeting about everything from the fashion to the music to the presenters to the lighting effects (and the water).  Yet as the evening wore on I began to notice a trend among my twitter feed (aside from the quirky mix of Downton-ites ignoring the Grammys, the weather-watchers glued to the tornado outbreak, and my school counseling tweeps engaged in their regular Sunday night edchat).  There was a chorus of "my opinion on music is superior to yours."  This caused me to back slowly away from engaging in any real banter with many of those whom I love chatting with on a regular basis.  I mean, come on, this is music.  The great uniter.  The one thing we should all agree on.  Yet suddenly the battle lines were drawn.

I understand I have what I consider "quirky" taste in music.  In one commute to work I can switch between a country music station, a grunge 90's station, some jazz on my iPhone, and a little blues.  I love classical music in a nerdtastical way (as in, I have favorite composers and eras).  I will tune in to Folk Night on the NPR station when I'm back home on the weekends.  I love me a good banjo player.  Don't get me started on the mandolin. 

You may not find any rap, urban, hip-hop, classic rock, hard rock, much pop, or electronica music in my music library.  But that certainly does not mean I don't appreciate the talents those musicians bring to the table.  What amazed me was the derision many had for them last night.  I saw derogatory comments for just about every musician that took the stage.  From Sir Elton John to Zac Brown Band, the Black Keys and Prince.  I mean seriously people.  These are some of the best musical minds of our generation.  They may not make the music you choose to purchase, but that does not mean you cannot bring yourself to appreciate what they bring to the table.  I may not like what Richard Wagner or Phillip Glass composed, and do not choose to listen to any of it, but I realize they have unique talents and skills. 

I think I will take Kelly Clarkson's approach.  I may not know who Miguel is, but damn if I didn't find his performance amazing.  I think the best thing the Grammy Awards can do for us is celebrate the musicians we love and open our eyes to ones we don't know about.  I have a few albums I will be investing in soon.  And yes, I'm totally, unashamedly, on the Justin Timberlake bandwagon. 

Reconnecting and Reunions

Today I am exhausted. Eyes must be propped open on toothpicks just to stay open.  Limbs are filled with lead.  I am moving with the slowness of one stuck in a vat of molasses. 

We spent our weekend travelling.  The primary objective was a Rosanne Cash concert to see in Colonial Willamsburg.  It was a much needed escape for me and my husband.  A long dinner out over wine and good food.  A weekend spent in one of our honeymoon spots.  Meeting up with my stepdaughter and her husband for lunch since we were close enough to see them. An evening filled with good music and laughter.  Conversation that wasn't constantly interrupted by a kindergartner's stream-of-consciousness banter.  While a substantial chunk of Saturday and Sunday were spent in airports and on airplanes getting to and from our destination, I can say without reservation it was just what we needed.  Even the time travelling.  We needed the reconnection.  Life has a way of getting in the way of couples.  No matter how much we try to be present in our relationships.  The minutiae of day-to-day life gets in there and can make you feel, well, just, meh.  A weekend like this was just what the doctor ordered.  Of course now all I want to do is be at home, with the fireplace roaring, snuggled down on his shoulder watching Out of Africa on repeat.  So then there's that...

One of the sweetest things this weekend though had nothing to do with us.  It came at the tail end of our trip.  We were rushing to make our connecting flight back to Ohio (which ended up delayed by several hours).  Once at the gate, I sat down breathlessly next to a woman with the most adorable little baby girl ever in the history of the universe.  Husband continued on to find a restroom.  I gushed to her about how sweet her little sleeping girl was.  She told me she had been travelling from Nigeria and asked about the delay.  Then asked if I had a phone she could borrow to call her husband.

Come again?  She's been travelling from Nigeria.  Alone.  With a nine-month old baby girl? Let's all pause for a moment in respect for this mother.

So the rest of her story was all the more sweet.  Her husband had left in August to start his MBA program at The Ohio State University.  Their daughter was only 3 months old then.  They haven't seen each other since.  She was on her way to Columbus to join him with their little girl in her arms.  Non stop flying, connections, more flying.  Hasn't ever been out of Nigeria in her life.  I have to mention here she was wearing sandals.  She spoke to her husband on my phone for a bit, telling him she loved him, she was sorry about the delay, they would be there soon, the baby was fine, etc, etc.  It was adorable.  I wanted to hug her, but didn't want to wake the baby.  When husband arrived back from the restroom we all chatted on and off through the duration of the delay.  Once we boarded our flight she disappeared from view until landing.  I saw her at the gate where she asked how to get to baggage-and urgent look on her face.  I felt tears stinging my eyes with joy for her.  A little while later as we exited the airport to our shuttle I saw to my right a taller man holding up that little, beautiful baby girl in his arms, smiling ear-to-ear, as her mother beamed from a bench below.  The family was reunited on a cold and snowy Ohio evening. 

Yes, it was a perfect weekend.  With a perfect ending.  We even got to reunite with our boy who wanted to stay longer with his friends.  Which is completely understandable.  The beginnings of independence are blossoming in him. 

For now though, I will get back to work and hope that this next mug of coffee will wake me up.  Or something like that...

Finding my Voice

I've spent a few years in a bit of a professional rut of sorts.  One where I felt like my wheels are spinning.  Like my job isn't that important.  But seriously-ask that one student who went to a school counselor with that one giant thing they couldn't tell anyone else, how important the school counselor is.

Pretty damn important.

The truth is, I've lost sight of my professional identity.  It has been whittled away by scheduling, paperwork, office moves, assignment changes, chasing after new positions that were not attained, others' attitudes, and by allowing those outside of myself to define my professional worth.

That ends now.  I have been at this job for seven years.  Nearly eight at this point.  (I mean, it is the second semester, so that counts for something, right?)  Not to mention the four years of teaching English.  I have had enough of waiting for value to be placed on what I do.

Ask the students who have graduated while I've held their hands through mountains of correspondence classes, career tech applications, open enrollment paperwork, and found them homes because their parents kicked them out.  They will tell you how vital my job is.

Ask the students who came to see me when they felt no one else on this planet even knew they existed. But I did.  Ask them if school counselors matter.

Ask the students who slip notes under my door about their (ex boyfriends, stepfathers, moms, brothers) abusing them because they are not able to say it aloud.  Yet they cannot take it anymore.  See if a school counselor was important to them.

Talk to the teens who used to cut, but instead come and hang with me when the urge hits.  Or the ones who have relapsed and confess this tearfully, only to hear me say "It's okay.  We will start over.  Today is new.  You are not a bad person." Ask them if school counselors are important in their recovery.

Call the parents who keep me on the phone with questions about the teenagers who baffle them because just yesterday they were perfect elementary students who listened and today they are sullen and sulky with crazy dyed hair and kohl lined eyes.  The parents who see me after graduation and thank me for being there when their students would only talk to me and no one else.  Ask those parents if school counselors matter.

I am tired of being asked "just what do you do?"  I am tired of being relegated to a minor role.  I will no longer let this happen.  Because I am important.

I am your child's biggest cheerleader.

I am your child's ray of light on their worst day at school.

I am the advocate for each student, no matter who they are.

When You are Five

You sing out loud without worrying what other people will think.

You dance to your song, not considering if your moves are cool.

You give food an actual thumbs-down when you put it in your mouth and it tastes bad.

You tell someone if you like them (or not).

You love with your whole heart.

You want to learn all the things.

When you are five you filter nothing and take in everything.

Last night our son was at swimming lessons.  He is re-taking the same level again.  It is clear he has the same fear of water I had at his age.  I am not too concerned about this, as once I got over the fear I became a fish and would swim any time I encountered so much as a puddle.  The instructor took the students into the deep end and onto the short dive board.  When it came to his turn he crouched down on the end and it was clear he didn't want to jump in.  She seems to be no-nonsense, and I could tell she was commanding him to get in.  Once he did, and bobbed to the surface (with the help of a noodle tied to his waist) he was over the moon.  He climbed the ladder, skipped to the back of the line, was singing loudly, and danced while punching at the sky.  Oblivious to the looks other kids were giving him.  Not caring what anyone thought.  He conquered a fear.  He was celebrating.  His next jump was a jump.  An arms in the air, catapulting himself upwards off the board with all his might, splashing in fine five-year-old boy form, jump. 

When I witnessed this, I thought we could all learn a little from five year-olds.  They are uninhibited still.  They revel in their emotions.  Free of the temper tantrums of toddlerhood, yet allow themselves to fully immerse in joy and sorrow.  Willing to sing out loud whatever is in their head.  Willing to dance if so moved.  Willing to celebrate accomplishments with abandon.  When do we lose this? I think I am going to try to take some of it back.  Dance some more.  Sing even if I am off key.  And I won't worry (or at least try not to) who thinks I've lost my mind.  Because after all, why shouldn't I celebrate the best moments in life with gusto?