Hear me Roar while I (try to) Bloom.

I am a woman. Hear me roar.

Well, actually, you can hear me roar sometimes and whimper other times. I am in my mid-forties, so I am definitely capable of both. Aren't all women my age like that? In the course of a normal day there are family responsibilities, work stress, the pressure of staying healthy, and most importantly, being the best woman possible in every way already mentioned. I have to be perfect and I cannot have pain. There is no time for pain.

Wait... What just slipped out? Yes. I said it. Blah blah blah and being the best woman possible in every way... Without pain. I am told through print and social media that I will only be worthy if I am an expert at EVERYTHING all the while not experiencing any side effects. We modern women have it pretty rough because if we can't stop, it is a lot of pressure. It takes it's toll on us.

And it has taken its toll on me lately in physical ways I couldn't predict. I guess I wasn't paying attention to the right stuff. I am imperfect, for sure.

Occasionally, when I look into a mirror, I take a second to notice that I am not a little girl anymore. I feel young, and I haven't noticed my reflection changing, but it certainly has changed during the last decade due to raising my own children. Upon close examination of my reflection, I see little lines that are deepening like canyons in the space between my eyebrows. They formed as a result of frowning at five year olds in my class who can't keep their hands to themselves. When I frown, I think somehow kids will behave. The lines also come from from forgetting that I need glasses to read and when I squint, I can see 12 point font better. Neither count is true. The result of frowning and squinting are lines and therefore middle aged facial status.

But it doesn't end there. My feet are also 46, though my podiatrist would argue that it is not an age thing. Yes. Podiatrist. It was inevitable.

I began to feel pain in my feet in March. I slipped on ice and over-turned my left foot. I then hobbled around on it, putting more weight temporarily on my right foot. I do not like to admit when I have pain, so I went months like that. I was a subtle version of a zombie kindergarten teacher, only I didn't chew on anyone's arm. The only person who heard me whine about my foot was my husband. He was lucky enough to see me at my worst... At the end of the day when I could hardly move anymore and was completely out of patience.

During the school year, I ignore things like colds and minor aches and pains. I work through the year and rarely take time out for myself. The kids need me, so I did what any teacher worth their weight in crayons would do... I waited until my yearly summer physical to mention it to my doctor.

"You should have come in sooner. Don't ignore things," he scolded me. He sent me for x-rays and a referral to the aforementioned podiatrist, a hyper man with a foot fetish. And I have joined the esteemed ranks of going to see a specialist who I could have had as a student in kindergarten. I could also (maybe) be his mother. He looked at my mangled feet and grinned. It was a sad day.

But, alas, even with bad feet, I am getting ahead of myself.

Back to hurting my foot in March and the hobbling... (No, not the Hobbiting)... that would have included second breakfast, which honestly, I would prefer.

Because of moving into a new home in early March, I was suddenly able to walk to work. It was lovely to do so, though my gate was less than normal. When the weather warmed up in April. I got a pedicure and wore flip flops because I felt free from the typical wool sock/boot combo of Vermont, and was ready to do some "foot flirting." With pretty toes, I hobbled like a hunchback through May and June, gritting through the pain. It finally became obvious that I should acknowledge the agony.

I was to the point where I was wincing at the thought of morning and dreading sunrise because I would have to put my feet on the floor. I would drag myself through the first few minutes of the day until my feet warmed up. This was new for me.

I described the symptoms to the esteemed foot doctor as he interrupted with, "You have plantar fasciitis!"

The plantar fascia is the thick tissue on the bottom of my foot. It connects the heel bone to the toes and creates the arch. My tissue is swollen... inflamed.

"My life is over," I sighed and leaned forward on the elevated lounge chair he had to help me into.

Unaffected by my theatrical emoting, he left the room, only to return with an ancient photocopy of the steps (don't mind the pun) I had to take to undo what I have done to myself.

"I see it a lot." He pointed to my x-rays on the computer screen. "Bad shoes. I'm guessing flip flops."

"Guilty." I thought of the many pairs I had come to adore during the summer months... The leopard spotted ones, the fluffy strapped and sequin strapped ones, a wooden pair of high heeled flips flops. The tears built up in the back of my throat. I choked them back.

"Get rid of them." He said plainly. "Step one (ha) is no more flip flops or bare feet. Not even around the house." Then, he kneeled before me and presented me with a gift. The man gave me Orthotics!

"These go in your shoes. And you need to shop in the aisle at the shoe store where the shoes are at least $120."

"Do you have stock in any company? What names should I buy?"

He rattled a few names off. I think I heard Nike and NewBalance, but it was hard to hear his voice over the loud cash register sound.

Argh! Seriously? I have to now insert a foamy thing into practical, ugly, expensive, shoes. So that you are experiencing my horror, would you please insert a loud moan into the blog right here for me?

I mean it. Moan out loud for me. I have to grow up. No more flip flops. No more "feet flirting." Not that it mattered anyway. Who am I kidding? I'm middle aged and married, and the only people looking at my feet were daydreaming kindergarteners who should have been listening at story time. Maybe a future kindergarten podiatrist will notice that I have bunions forming too.

I know I will miss looking at my toes. I like nail polish. They make great colors these days. I like having pedicures every now and again. Why bother anymore? Sigh. I grieve.

It didn't end there. The podiatrist gave me more to do. I have to ice my feet for an hour a day and stretch for about a half an hour. Who has time for this?

Grown ups have time for this. My own kids are big enough now that I can sit for twenty minute icing sessions. They can take care of themselves now.

So, that was a few weeks ago, and since then I have behaved myself. I dutifully stuffed the orthotics in my shoes and have worn them in and out of the house. I have iced my feet... Actually it has been pleasant, and I have been reading more too because I am being forced to sit still.

I have to admit I miss my colorful toenail flair, but the pain is gone.

At least it is gone in my feet.

Wait. They feel better! I don't dread mornings anymore. Wow! I am healing!

But now that I don't feel pain in my feet anymore, I noticed that my right shoulder hurts beyond what I can tolerate. During this (my last week of summer) I crammed in two visits to the chiropractor. He has cracked my neck, adjusted my back, and assigned exercises for me to do each day now too!

Who has time for this?

I have to. He tells me I have a misplaced rib that has to be worked back into place. Don't worry... I have up to twelve appointments that can be fit in before Christmas break. Sheesh.

Thank God school starts soon, because it seems like the more time I have to focus on myself and go see doctors, the more my body is falling apart or at least the more I am able to feel it.

Besides, I need to stop going to specialists and get back into my classroom and... How does the saying go? Bloom where I should be plantared. Plantar Fascitis. Roar!

Oops... I mean "Bloom where I am Planted". Or, where I should be planted, a 46 year old distracted from her imperfections by a bunch of little kids. Time to focus on planting seeds in little paper cups and putting them in the window to watch them bloom. Time for sitting on the floor to play with blocks or finger paint on construction paper while ruining my back from sitting in tiny chairs. Hopefully, I can still get up this year.

My turn to give (little) people assignments and exercises to do for a change.

Bring it on 2014-2015. My body definitely isn't perfect but it surely can't take summer anymore.

A Siri's of flaws

The battle began last week as we walked across the parking lot to the car. At first it was like every other day after work/school... My three kids and me schlepping our stuff. In the midst of the trek, I swore I heard a voice that was not of this world. I froze in my tracks. It was a voice, and not one that belonged to any of my children.

After a few frightening moments of questioning my sanity, I finally figured out that my phone was the one who was talking. Siri (a voice recognition system for iPhones), though muffled, was gabbing away, seemingly to no one in particular, in a pocket of my bag. I must have bumped it (with all the schlepping), and the phone was just doing its job.

She (the female voice, or Siri) said something like, "What can I do for you today?"

I ignored her, (Siri) because I find it difficult to delegate in the midst of chaos, especially to 'a telephone. Instead, I tuned into my children's conversation; they spoke over and to each other simultaneously as children tend to do. We continued to stomp along avoiding icy puddles while carrying a trombone case, several lunch boxes, backpacks, and bags of winter gear like skates, helmets, and snow pants. We arrived at the car, out of breath.

Siri would not be ignored. She spoke again, this time louder:  "What can I help you with today, SHEILA?"

I dropped my keys. Stupid phone. Sheila is my sister's name. The last time I was called Sheila by mistake was when my elementary school teachers were burnt out and confused, or my mother was overwhelmed or distracted. At times, my mother wouldn't just call me Sheila; she would say all of our names in a giant word, loudly, like this, "CHRISRICKSHEILAAMY!"

No, Siri, I am NOT my sister Sheila. I am me. My name is Amy, I thought.

Initially, it was sort of funny, because I had had one of "those" days where anything that could go strange, did. I chuckled, grabbed the phone out of the pocket and turned her off. I have the power to do so. Ha! I won!

For now.

We talked about it... The phone and I. Later that night, after the kids were in bed, I pushed the button for Siri to appear and do her thing.

"What can I help you with tonight?" She asked politely.

"My name is Amy." I said firmly.

"No, your name is Sheila, but would you like me to call you 'my name is Amy' from now on?"

"What? No! My name is Amy!"

"That is what I said. If you want, I will call you 'my name is Amy' from now on, Sheila. Would you like that?"

"No. I am Amy."

"Okay 'no, I am Amy'. Would you like me to call you 'no, I am Amy" from now on?"

"Ack!" I turned her off again, resisting the urge to throw her out the window into a snow bank.

Please don't tell my phone that I am mad at her. I don't know if she could handle it. She may blow a gasket.

Do iPhones have gaskets? Probably not. She may punish me, then. She may erase an important meeting off my calendar, claiming the iCloud is full. She may forget to track a glass of water on my water app or add calories to my Lose It app, throwing me off my health game and New Year's resolution. No, my phone can't know I am REALLY mad.

But enough about my phone and back to my sister, Sheila. My phone thinks I am Sheila. But I am not.

I am younger than Sheila, by six years, which has always worked well for me. She blazed the high school trail with good grades, so I rebelled by getting bad grades. She went to a small college, so I went to a bigger one. She majored in literature, so I focused on writing. I am taller, so she's cuter... Thinner... Lucky her. She blazed the parenting trail before me. Her boys are big enough to have deep voices now and mine have to be reminded to flush and wash their hands EVERY time they use the bathroom. Sheila works in the comfort of her home while wearing pajamas for her job. I play emotional wack-a-mole in public school every day as I engage 5 year olds in what we are now calling "common core." And I can't wear pajamas unless it has been declared "pajama day" at school.

That about says it all. We are not the same Siri, so why the hell are you getting us mixed up?

Seriously. Someone help me.

Maybe I should examine how Sheila and I are alike to see if I can determine why the phone is confused.

Let's see:
We have the same last name.
We have similar voices.
We love adventures and trying new things.
We think the sun rises and sets on our kids.
We like to read and write.
We live in Vermont.
We both know how to knit.
We have the same parents.
We like the show "LOST".
Our phone numbers share the same area code (802).

I showed my friend Java the phone. I held it up and asked Siri, "What is my name?"

"Your name is Sheila, but since we are friends, I call you Amy." Siri said contentedly.

I talked to my father about the phone mixing up his two daughters. He was a computer programmer for most of his adult life. He has dealt with the black and white thinking... The binary ness of a program like Siri.

He gave it some thought and declared, "Tell the phone 'never call me Sheila again'... That'll fix it."

I did just that. Her response? "Do you want me to call you 'Sheila' again?

"No. I am Amy. Amy. Amy."

"I will call you Amy. Amy Amy."

"I want you to call me 'Amy' from now on."

"Okay 'Amy from now on' do you want me to call you 'Amy from now on' from now on?"

"No!" I shouted.

I didn't talk to her for two days. Finally, I picked her up, and hands shaking, I summoned Siri. "What can I do for you today 'Amy. Amy. Amy'?"

"Call me Amy." I said calmly. I had thought of the most challenging question of all for Siri. I wanted to know if she could figure this out and I thought it would be a nice distraction from our typical conversation. "AND, what am I wearing?" I asked her.

"Ok 'Amy AND' Would you like me to search the Internet for 'what am I wearing?' for you 'Amy AND?'"

"Yes."

Siri searched. She came up with, "It is likely that you are wearing clothes 'Amy AND'."

There you have it. I was wearing clothes. My outfit was implied in my sentence and able to be found on the Internet apparently. I will never win with this Siri program. People have suggested I call tech support. Other's say I should demand a free phone. Nope. I will win this battle with Siri. I am not a computer. I have feelings and a soul and I am stubborn and I will win.

I gave it some more thought and finally figured out why my phone wants to call me by my sister's name. It is completely my fault. I told her too.

When I first met Siri, I summoned her. When she asked me what she could do for me, I said the two words I now regret: "Call Sheila." I wanted her to call my sister and the phone heard, "Call ME Sheila" even though that is not what I said. The rest is history.

Since I have met Siri, I have come to the conclusion that dealing with phones and five year olds is the same. They both take what I say literally and every single word that leaves my mouth better be perfect, because they depend on me to give very clear instructions. That is a lot of pressure, isn't it? Every word!

And at times, kindergarteners can be as mixed up as Siri. Recently, a child said to me, "Mrs. Braun... She stuck my tongue out at her."

I paused and, like Siri, I couldn't process what the child was trying to say. My response: "Uh... Did you like it?"

Child: "No!"

Me: "Then tell her you didn't like it."

Child: "Otay."

As always, a good night's sleep will give me the patience I need and the clarity to find the words to say to Siri and to my brood of five year olds. I will wake up tomorrow with a new approach to getting through to all of them: kids and iPhones alike. What other choice is there? I have to try it all over again... It is what I do.

I teach... Therefore I am... Not... My sister.

When Sheila reads this, I hope she doesn't stick my tongue out at her.

Where For Art Thou?

I will tell you where I am... home. I am finally home after being a passenger in the car for about two hours as we drove needlessly around in the Vermont wilderness in the dark in search of money and avoiding black cats. What? Complex? Yes. Ridiculous? Yes. Funny? Yes. At least we all finally found the humor and spent some "quality time" together, or least that is what I am telling myself so I can feel better about it. It all started when I opened my big mouth and told my children that "Brave" and "Avengers" were playing at the drive-in. They were very excited about it and so was I. It seemed like a great idea until my friend told me that "Brave" started at 9:30 (after sundown)and "Avengers" started at 11:00. She said that the movies would not be over until well after 1:30 IN THE MORNING. Parenting dilema #1: Do I make my children happy tonight and cranky tomorrow due to utter exhaustion? What type of parent does this? I engaged them (my reasonable children) in a conversation about the late hour and how they would normally be in bed by the time the movie started. They took it like any other kids and refused to see what I was trying to tell them. They attempted Puss-in-boots faces, negotiating, and finally just simply gave in and said that they understood and did not blame me for saying no to the movie after all. What great kids. My oldest even said he knew that I was just trying to be a good mom and that it was "ok." But then my younger son, at about 9:00 came up and grabbed my hand, "Mom... are we really not going to the movie? Not even the first movie?" Parenting dilema #2: Should I give in? They have been working me hard for hours with the faces and the guilt and now the "innocent" clarification on how the rest of the evening was going to be. What type of parent does this? I completely lost my mind. "Fine!" I threw my hands into the air. "I give in! Let's go. It'll be great... even though both of you are going to be asleep in the car as we go across a mountain to get there! I can't wait to see a movie that starts at 9:30 at night! And then another one after that!" And then they looked up at me and said, "Oh mom... we don't have to go." "What?" I was dumnbfounded. "Oh, we're going! And not only that... we're going to have fun!" Famous last words. We stopped at the ATM on the way through town. My husband reached for his wallet. Nope. No wallet. I had mine. I gave him my debit card and announced the pin. Oops. Wrong pin. I gave him another pin. Nope. Wrong again. And another... ooops. "I have to type it to get it right," I said defensively. The ATM machine was angry at us. We drove over the mountain to go to the movie and decided to go to our bank in Randolph. By now, I knew the pin. I shouted the correct number out. It had come to me when I wasn't under such pressure. We drove through the ATM again. Correct pin number, but by that time the bank thought someone had stolen my card and is trying to get money out of my account. Nope. ATM will not release funds. Too many attempts! It was the right pin number, but the card would not work now. My husband decided we should try another bank instead of our bank. Nope" again. "I have the checkbook!" I announced. "I think we paid them a check before at the drive-in. Let's try that!" Nope. My husband would not give up. "We could go use the debit card in a gas station or store to buy something somewhere and take out extra cash." This time I said no. The closest store/gas station was miles away and I assumed the card would not work. I didn't want it to work by then. To me, the signs were very clear that we were not supposed to go to the movies tonight. Sometimes I have to pay attention. "It is just not meant to be!" I said. My husband and children couldn't quite wrap their minds around it. Suddenly a black cat crossed our path. I shouted to assure myself that my husband would not hit it. I am superstitious. Maybe you are too. I just really don't like when black cats cross in front of me. It feels like an omen of some sort. If we had seen the cat before we left home, I would have insisted that we stay home. "A black cat in our path. That's not good." The kids wanted me to explain why. I tried to lay it all out, the laws of the universe some of us buy into like open ladders and salt over the shoulder etc. I simply passed my ridiculous beliefs onto my children. Not good! We crossed the mountain discussing these important concepts. About halfway up the mountain, another black cat made the trek across the road in front of us. Now, instead of just me, I have the kids joining in on the insanity: "Ah! A black cat!" We all shouted at my husband. We rounded a corner and drove close to the edge of the road where our recent hurricane had taken a guardrail. My son laughed hysterically at the thought of avoiding a black cat and careening over a cliff. We almost made it home without seeing another black cat, but we went through a section in the hollow called "Julie's Ark"- a farm with hundreds of cats (and hundreds of other cute creatures). We were almost to the corner when a black cat darted out and we ALL (including my husband) shouted in response. He tried to argue that the cat was brown, but the rest of the family wouldn't hear of it. "It's black! It's black!" We all shouted. It was bizarre. I have never seen so many cats out and about. There were more cats than other cars... you know, rural Vermont and all. "I just want to go home!" I shouted. "Me too!" Shouted the boys from the back. Ahh. Mission accomplished. My kids wanted to go home. Alls well that ends well. We had some quality time together, and we didn't even have to see the movie.

Paisley

The first paisley piece of clothing I ever owned was a pair of oversized men's pajamas from the thrift shop. My mother was not impressed, but I washed them THOROUGHLY and wore them all through my college years to study in the library and eat in the cafeteria. I was known on campus as the girl with the bright red lipstick... But I am sure people also whispered about those pajamas and how they were kind of ridiculous. Eventually the pajamas fell apart and I had to dispose of them in the dumpster behind the dorm... Sad day. To satisfy my paisley fix, I found an oversized paisley "mu-mu" that had giant black buttons with sparkly rhinestones at a yard sale. Again, I wore the dress until it was in shreds and we had to say good-bye. There has really not been much paisley in my life since then. It's been about 25 years, which is very strange because I really do like paisley... A lot. But after a 25 year hiatus with paisley, it is back. I have been talking about my Mid-life crisis to whoever will listen. Yesterday I trapped my friend Dana for a few minutes and I shared the concept of a portable thrift shop in an Airstream. "You could serve milk and Pepsi like Laverne and Shirley." Dana said. "Chocolate cokes," I was charged with enthusiasm, "and vanilla cokes!" I had a vision. I saw myself in a 1950's style aqua paisley apron. Note to self: keep eyes open for an apron like that. Then today I was deluged with paisley. Is it a sign? Of course it is. If you know me, you know I have to take it as one. I talked to my friend Barb, a graphic designer, who has great taste for how things look. She supports my portable store idea too, so I was "picking her brain" for input. "I think it would be nice to see how you would paint it." She said supportively. "I see color, but I want to honor the silver too." Then I added, "What do you see?" "Paisley." There it was again. Paisley! Note to self... The apron has got to be paisley. Aqua... Paisley. Later on today, my friend Java approached me. Now bear in mind, she has the name Java because she was a teen in the 1950's era and it was her nickname due to the fact that she loved coffee. She had her hands behind her back and she pulled out an apron and held it up in front of me. Guess what it looked like! You can see the pattern. It is obvious what pattern and color this apron was because you know that is just how things go for me sometimes. Call it coincidence. Call it intuition. Call it a sign... It doesn't matter. Java was holding an aqua colored paisley apron in her hands. It was actually reversible and had a little pocket on each side. "Pinky promise me that you won't take it if you don't like it. I just thought you might want this for some reason," she barely finished her sentence before I embraced her and tied it around my waist. "It was my mother's." Java was smiling, but she also had tears in her eyes. A gift of love! I didn't have any idea what to say. "I can't believe this! Yesterday I pictured an apron just like this. I put it out there and you show up today with exactly what I wanted? This is amazing." "I don't know why. It had been in storage for... 16 years. I just thought you should have it." "It's your mother. She has spoken. I would be honored to have this apron!" Within 20 minutes, hands shaking, I logged onto the Vermont Small Business Development web-site and signed up for a course in writing a business plan. Java's mother has spoken. Now all that remained on my list of affirmations was a child. Some random kid has to validate my idea. I thought that it happened at recess when a little girl (fairy) approached me with a "magic wand" (stick). "Just say your wish, and I will grant it. Anything!" "I want a 1958 Airstream." I said, knowing that this fairy didn't know what an Airstream was. I am superstitious however, and so it doesn't hurt to have a playground fairy placing wishes into the cosmos. "Tada! Done." If only it were that easy. Kid validation... Check... Nope. The true validation came later when a different little girl walked up to me at baseball practice. "Here!" She smiled as she handed me two pieces of aqua paisley fabric that she had cut off from the bottom of her pants. "You told me you liked this fabric awhile ago. Now you can have it to make a bag." Kids say the darnedest things. And aqua paisley no less... Not a bread crumb trail, but one clearly marked with paisley.

My Mid-Life Crisis/44 year-old style

Is 44 a good time for a mid-life crisis? I don’t know, but I’m having one. More than likely, I am about mid-way through this journey. At this point- in the mid-forties-ish, most of us evaluate our lives. We take a moment and look back on our decisions. We also simultaneously look forward with eagerness while we judge ourselves harshly. Am I satisfied with myself? Mostly. Am I content with where I stand? Never. It’s been great and exciting and rewarding life so far, but I feel a rumbling inside myself and it is not indigestion. It is my inner voice. What is next, Amy? What now? Don’t worry, I won’t leave my husband or anything crazy like that. But I’m going to take a leap of faith, follow the signs, and… well… I shouldn’t tell you everything at once. So, what am I planning? I am going to do what all entrepreneurs do and follow my passion to make a new path. I love to write, express myself through what I wear, and shop for second-hand clothing. So… I am going to make my own clothing store, and I am going to write about all the steps as I take them and share them. You can read about it here. This blog is #1. I will tell you in the blog how this vision came to be. You can follow the story and leave comments or suggestions. I am open to what you have to say because I have never done anything like this before. So… Like all my big events in my life, the whole thing started with my own words. I “put it out there” to the universe a few months ago when I told my husband and a few friends that I thought that we needed a funky second hand clothing/furniture store in our town. I said it often to anyone who would listen and I kind of wanted it to be me. One day The Red Barn opened on School Street and it brought great joy to my heart. Even though it wasn’t me, someone had made it happen and how cool is that? I watched as the owner decorated the space, painting the inside, adding shelving, lighting, and wonderful trinkets and art with a playful flare. One Sunday I approached the door, and though she wasn’t open for business yet, I knocked. Rhoda answered with a smile and let me in. We had never met, but this being the small Vermont town that it is, we had of course heard of each other before. I told her how happy I was that she had done this and that we really needed something like this in our town. I asked her if she was going to sell any clothes. Nope. I took an extra bold step and asked if perhaps she would be willing to rent some space upstairs to me in the summer so I could sell some funky clothes on consignment. “Probably not. I don’t like dealing with clothes. I am way better at the ‘stuff’,” Rhoda said. End of conversation. I left her store feeling sort of secretly happy that clothing wasn’t her thing because it really is mine, and perhaps I can still have the corner of the second-hand market in our little town somehow. Some day. Some way. It’s my passion. Months passed. I still kept searching for the right venue. I am never afraid to pursue things and ask questions and follow trails. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? So, Memorial day weekend, and my first day off in a very long time. My husband was generous and hung at home with the kids while I went to Seasoned Books in town and had breakfast with a friend and talked about all sorts of things like the fact that our town needs to purchase another school bus. We talked about the various uses for a school bus if the school needed to buy a new one and we started “brainstorming” lots of uses.

Then we scanned the town wide yard sale on the green. At the Park House yard sale, I was led by a woman who knows my taste, to a table of great jewelry from the 1970’s so I bought myself some great flare. I also got a lovely outdoor vase for my garden. I lost track of time. The last thing I had to do before heading home was purchase some mulch at the Hardware Store because I wanted to garden on my birthday. Mulch=Happiness. Car loaded, I looked across the street at The Red Barn as I started my car. I am so happy that she has made that work here in our little town, and it is a great location… School Street. School Street… School Clothes… Old School Clothes… It hit me! I could buy a school bus and take all the seats out of it and replace the seats with racks and racks of clothes. I could have a TRAVELING thrift shop. What a concept! Only a few problems surfaced when I thought about it… I don’t have my CDL License and buses are big and buses are expensive and use Diesel. I could kill someone driving around in something so large and I should not be a teacher who kills someone while I am driving around in a bus. But… I am a dreamer so I kept dreaming as I prepared to go home. I had played “hookey” for most of the morning and should head home to see the husband and kids. I looked up School Street to check for traffic. None… as usual… A gust of wind blew. A big gust of wind. I looked at The Red Barn across the street and watched as the wind grabbed a vintage beach umbrella that was set up outside the store. It tumbled across the front of the store and stopped. I was on my way home… but I didn’t like seeing the umbrella tumbling, so I pulled across the street and parked my car, got out, and approached the umbrella. Rhoda came out of the store at the same time. We both grabbed the umbrella top steady it. “Thanks,” She smiled. I let go, and she closed the umbrella, moved it back, and leaned it against the red siding. I had already decided to go inside her store… after all, I had been bargain hunting all day. What’s another 15 minutes of dawdling? Well… life changing… that’s what. It was a recipe for a mid-life crisis decision. It was the weekend I was turning 44 and I had “put it out to the universe”… months before. I was searching for something. Something unusual… I looked around inside her store and bought my son a marble. The antique marbles were 20c so I gave Rhoda a quarter and told her to keep the change. Big spender… We small-talked. I told her my idea. I would get the bus and clean it out. I would call it “Old School Clothes.” “Hey… I have an 1958 Airstream for sale. It needs to be gutted out, but it is able to be moved. You could do fairs and flea markets. I was going to sell hamburgers out of it… but someone is doing that already, so that can’t happen.” My brain latched on to the idea. HMMMM… buy a classic ‘Silver Bullet’ Airstream and open a business inside of it. I have found a vessel… or… more accurately, it found me. And it is not that huge of a financial commitment. It seems crazy. To quote my mother, the wise one who gave birth to me 44 years ago (today), “When did you become so obsessive compulsive?” This was her response when I asked her to come and see the Airstream. She wouldn’t budge because she was in her nightgown. I wanted her to take my picture next to the “Silver Bullet”, and I wanted her opinion about whether I am too much of a dreamer to think I can remodel the inside and turn it into my mid-life crisis dream come true. My mother always tends to point out the negative sides of things, which keeps me tethered to the planet. So I always go to her with my crazy ideas so she can talk me out of them. My response: “Mom, I have always been this obsessive about things.” (Notice I didn’t say compulsive… because I am not.) So… this is where we are right now. I have chatted about the idea with people besides my mother, and no one seems to laugh. People have tilted their heads slightly, but no one has called the authorities to check me into the mental institution. My husband seems to think it would be roomy inside. I could buy it and start cleaning it out this summer. I could perhaps attend a few markets and begin to earn some of the money back that I think I may invest into this crazy idea. But here is the best part of all of it… If things don’t work out as I am seeing them, my family can always just take the blessed Airstream on vacation in the summer. It would be useful to keep up dry in case of rain, which tends to happen around here. Not bad for a mid-life crisis, you know? At least I want to share the rest of my journey with my husband and kids, not trade them in like pieces of consignment clothing. But wait, is there a mark-up value on a man who is wise enough to get me a massage for my birthday? Yes… that’s right… priceless… a man to share the future with as long as he is willing to stay the course. I look forward to seeing him take a maul to the inside of this Airstream after I ask the bank to support my business plan. Man, I have work to do. Stay tuned, dear reader.

A Passing Glimpse

Today was officially our last summer day, so I wanted to have a “do nothing” day. We finished school shopping this week with new backpacks, lunchboxes, shoes, and outfits. We were on the go all summer between summer camps, soccer, trips to hotels and amusement parks, camping, train rides and swimming lessons. I think we had only one day all summer when we never left the house. This morning I was ready for a “do nothing” day. Do nothing? Yeah, right… with three kids in the house, we were all climbing the walls by about 10:00 am.
So I packed lunches in their old lunchboxes, and by early afternoon, we had set out to “walk” our favorite trail, The Robert Frost “Interpretive Trail” in Ripton, Vermont. Some of Mr. Frost’s poems are posted along the way where walkers can pause, read, and reflect on the words written by the famous poet. Now, notice I said walkers can pause etc. Have you ever gone on a hike with children? They (at least mine) don’t move at a walking pace. They run, skip, hop, jump… but they don’t walk. Ever.
They ran ahead and shouted, “Mom! We’ll wait for you at the bridge,” or “Mom! I’m going off the path and I’ll meet you at the next corner.” That sort of thing.
While I walked, and sometimes I paused, read, and reflected on the words of several poems. Like this poem:
I often see flowers from a passing car
That are gone before I can tell what they are.

I want to get out of the train and go back
To see what they were beside the track.

I name all the flowers I am sure they weren't;
Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt--

Not bluebells gracing a tunnel mouth--
Not lupine living on sand and drouth.

Was something brushed across my mind
That no one on earth will ever find?

Heaven gives it glimpses only to those
Not in position to look too close.
This poem makes me think back to the first time I took my kids to the Robert Frost trail. My older son stayed within ten feet of me and my younger son held my hand. The idea of a third child, especially a foster daughter, had never crossed my mind. And we swiftly walked the mile loop, NEVER stopping to read a single poem. It was as if I was in the train car that Robert Frost referred to in his poem, and my children, the engineers, were driving it at full speed. That’s how it is. All parents say it, “Don’t blink because they grow up so fast!” Robert Frost said, “Heaven gives its glimpses only to those not in a position to look too close.” Do they mean the same thing? I think so.
All of Robert Frost’s poems talk of nature and are symbols of life and death. This particular poem reminds a lot of the last official day of summer. It was a great day, from which I can’t really pick my favorite moment. Was it when the kids ate their lunch in the arms of a giant pine tree? Was it when we all made fairy houses in the forest on the side of a steep hill to protect the fairies from impending Hurricane Irene? Was it when the kids crossed the brook barefoot? Was it picking wild blueberries and mulberries and staining our fingers and lips? I don’t know. They were all moments I can try to grab and hold in my heart, but Mr. Frost called them “glimpses.” He was right… the fall comes and then the winter comes and soon everything is covered in snow and then we are all older.
In the car, my younger son said to me, “Mom. Today’s your last day of summer vacation as a 43 year old.”
My, he’s tuned in. And it’s his last one as an eight year old.
Ahh! I could cry. I want to grab my kids and hug them and tell them to stop growing, but that’s not the way it’s supposed to be. Maybe instead of getting all sentimental, we can enjoy the last bit of today by watching a bad kid’s movie together. I’ll guess I’ll pop the corn.

Iceberg Lettuce

As a kindergarten teacher, I have to teach my students how to rhyme. Seriously! Rhyming is not a skill that comes naturally to a child, and whether or not a child can rhyme is graded on the report card. I ask each kid questions like, “Does the word frog rhyme with the word dog?” Now bear in mind, I have probably just pulled the little darling away from something fun in the classroom like “dress-up” or “block corner” and I have to force him/her to stand next to me and answer a bunch of questions. Leaving no child behind, you know? Some kids are very honest. They look up and say “I don’t care!” Other kids will stare at me blankly and shrug. A few others will answer “yes” or “no.” You see, knowing if something rhymes is a predictor of future reading ability. When I teach this concept, I try to make it fun. I randomly fit rhyming into conversation all day long. I say things like, “Sit in your chair… Claire.” (No one is actually named Claire). Or I say “Get back in line… Calvin Klein!” (No Calvin Klein either). It gets a little pathetic when I do it at home though. My husband knows to ignore me when I start talking like Dr. Suess on crack. Here’s my token phrase… “Don’t panic. We’re not on the Titanic.” I’ll say it to a student who is frustrated over a lost glue stick cap or a broken crayon because nothing could possibly be as bad as being on the Titanic and hitting an iceberg. It’s a good phrase. I take complete credit for it. I made it up. And I actually used it on myself… last night. Do you know what prompted it? Well, a piece of Iceberg Lettuce… what else? A tiny piece of green iceberg lettuce almost made me cry last night.
I know, you’re thinking it is JUST A GARNISH. Why did a piece of lettuce set you off?
Well, I will begin at the beginning… or I will try.
First of all, I have to explain why I am so fragile right now. Lettuce put it this way (ha ha), it has been one “hell of a winter!” We keep getting smacked with snow, and many of us are ready for spring. We have gone skiing, sledding, snowshoeing, and of course we have braved the elements shoveling and scraping. Enough is enough already. We’re almost through our wood supply and we had our WORST STORM THIS YEAR ON MARCH 7th! It actually was a record snowfall! AHHHH! Over two feet of snow piled up on the roof again. Many people think March is a spring month; not in Vermont! To have that Maple Syrup we are all so proud of, we have to have freezing nights and warm days and during those warm days, the snow melts and slides off roofs.
Remember that little detail.
The other thing that gets rough is that the snow has to get plowed and piled somewhere. We’re running out of room for it right now in our community. I struggle opening the doors to our car because the snow is piled up on the sides of the driveway. I feel like I live on top of a toboggon run.
A Honda Element is not the easiest car to exit in a narrow situation on a hill. The doors open in an unusual manner. The front door opens like a regular door (to the right), and the back door opens to the left. The front door has to be open so that the back door can open. I like it that way, because my kids are trapped in the car until I open the door to let them out. But then I have to grab my stuff, open their door, stand and wait for them to hop out with their stuff. And then they often bump the door, which smacks shut and knocks something out of my hands.
Here is a list of what I am usually carrying:
My Blag (purse)
My backpack
My laptop
My luncbox
Invariably something else too
I can hear you shouting, “DOWNSIZE!” “Carry Less!” or “Take two trips moron!”
Right. I live on this steep, steep, steep, hill and I don’t want to take two trips. I just want to get home and put my stuff down and put the busy day behind me.
And besides, during March in Vermont, people try not to make any important decisions. At this point in the year, everyone gets a little antsy with “Cabin Fever”, so it’s just not a good time to change daily routines, jobs, or marriages. So although I should perhaps downsize and put my wallet in my backpack or something simple like that, I simply can’t shift gears right now. Nothing changes in March. Wait until April. I’m trying to be a good Vermonter, stay the course, and be patient. Grass will appear again and then I can think clearly. I’m sure of it. I’ll make changes to my routine then (and not my job or my marriage if all goes well).
Besides, I always feel as if I need all these vessels with me. I’m a mom and I’m busy with many commitments. If I didn’t have my backpack, Blag or lunchbox, I would need something from inside one of them for some undeniable reason. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but I just like to be prepared. Besides, I only have to bring the laptop back and forth every other day. The tech guy told me it has to show up at school every “coupla days to stay anti-virused.” The tech guy doesn’t live on my hill.
So, last night, I got of the car, opened the back door for the boys, and gathered ALL my things to prepare to climb the mushy summit. Although it had been snowing in the morning, it was now sleeting and the snow underfoot was slippery slush. The kids climbed out. Earlier, we had gone to the library, so there was also a giant “Where’s Waldo” book that had to go up the hill too. We had gone out to eat (a rare thing) so I was carrying take-out food for my husband in one of those flimsy Styrofoam containers. Now, you can see where this is going, can’t you?
Foreshadowing: slippery slush and snow-piled roofs that melt and slide onto paths and decks
I put my coat, hat, and mittens on and took a deep breath. I am a roadie. I am a woman. Hear me roar. The kids climbed ahead of me. It was pretty dark. We hadn’t left any lights on that morning, but we followed the tobaggon path past the snowman and onto the steps.
My son warned me, “There’s alotta snow on the deck, mom.”
“It must’ve come off the roof today.” I grunted.
“Why?” He yelled. I was well behind him.
Fast. Intense. Wants to know information. How dare he at 8:00 pm on a school night? I don’t have the energy for answering questions on a Thursday while carrying way too much uphill in slush!
He is that kind of kid. He wants an entire explanation of “why” the snow would come off the roof and I have to give it to him right then and there. He doesn’t care that I am causing myself to slip a disk because I am acting like a Grand Canyon pack mule. He is carrying enough of his own stuff to worry about helping me anyway.
“It melted.”
“Why?”
“It was over thirty-two degrees today. The snow warmed up and slid off.”
“Oh.”
By this point I was at the top of the slushy steps and I paused to catch my breath and prepare to step onto the giant mound of snow that was blocking what should be my path to my door. He had already made it to the door.
I took one giant step and one little step. Upon completion of my little step, I suddenly realized I had stepped on the tail of my own long winter coat. Everything in my hands and on my arms went flying as my exhausted brain tried to process the situation.
Now. If you are ever in this situation, (I know, you’re thinking “I never will be because I don’t live the way you do”) here is what happens: you’re brain will instantly make a decision on what to save. My priorities were my husband’s dinner and the laptop.
Well, things didn’t really go as planned. EVERYTHING went flying! It landed on the soft snow (the lap top is fine) I managed to snag one thing: a small piece of iceberg lettuce. Mid-air. Seriously.
My one son, bless his little heart, said. “Mom, are you okay?”
My other son, bless his heart, said, “Will we have time to watch tv tonight?”
I answered both of them at once, “Don’t worry about me boys, I’m fine!” Under my breath I said to myself, “Don’t panic. You’re not on the Titanic.” I could’ve laughed or cried at that point, either one would’ve been appropriate. I did what I had to do. I got up, brushed myself off, grabbed what I could find in the dark and went inside.
I don’t think I stayed awake too long after that. It had been a long day.
But this morning, I looked out the window to see my neighbor shoveling our toboggan run (driveway). It took me a second to realize that he was shoveling the driveway because the snow had come off his roof and completely covered the driveway. This meant that until the snow was removed, I could not get to work.
Ah… Friday. I made the necessary phone calls and got ready for work. “Oh well,” I thought to myself out loud, “I have no control over the situation. Don’t panic… We’re not on the Titanic.” I reminded myself.
We weren’t actually that late after all. My neighbor actually shoveled the entire thing pretty quickly. We left the house. I had forgotten that there was a giant mound of snow on the deck that we had to climb over. I took a deep breath of cold Vermont morning air and climbed the pile and descended the steps.
Then suddenly I saw something GREEN! I was a little confused at first. For a second, I thought it was grass. I thought it was spring. Silly me. It was just a misplaced piece of lettuce from last night. Iceberg lettuce. Garnish.
Ah… Friday. The end of the work week… and one day closer to spring. We’re almost there.
“Iceberg dead ahead!” I said to no one in particular.