How to Leave an Impression (Or the Day I Was Accidentally So Many Things I'm Normally Not)

On my last day as a school employee I was emotionally sabotaged. Whose fault? I don't know.

You see, a week after the school year has ended, all of the employees are called together to clean out the building. We rent (or they . . . it's not a "we" anymore, I suppose) space from a church. This year, the school officially purchased their OWN building (huzzah! huzzah! huzzah!), so everyone was supposed to pack up everything and then settle down for a nice luncheon. Where we share . . . memories. And . . . feelings. Oh, feelings . . .

We're strange, creatures, women. Loaded with this lovely little hormone called estrogen. Good laaaaawd, the estrogen. Have you ever noticed that women in mass numbers are breeding ground for tears? Anywhere from the sniffles to full-on-suck-dust-off-the-carpet-out-of-control sobs. We just love to cry in groups. It's like our hormones are having a bloody tea party. "Oh, hi, who you do you come from?"
"Marge, she's over there. Had a rough week."
"You don't say? One lump or two?"
"No sugar. Just chocolate. LOADS of chocolate. And no tea, either. Just the chocolate. Thank heavens. You know, I think, while we're all together, I should share Marge's feelings."
"Oh, that sounds lovely. Let's all join hands and make all our hosts miserable on the count of one, two--"
And suddenly all the women are overwhelmed with empathy, the tears, snot, and an onslaught of unexplainable emotions.

It's nasty business. Especially when you’re someone with the public-display-of-emotions aptitude of a rock. Introversion at its finest, peeps.

So, back to the school clean-up day.

You know something's up with your day when you walk in the door, so PROUD of yourself for being early, and you're greeted with, "Oh THERE you are! Thank goodness! We were just about to call you!"
"Wha--whaaaat? My curriculum turn-in appointment was at eleven. Was I supposed to be here before that?"
"Sarah . . . clean-up started at nine."
"Oh, CRAP!!! But I thought . . . I had been . . . I . . . ah, crap."
"It's no big deal. You've been cleaning your stuff out for over a week. You're fine."
"I thought we had to be here in time to turn in curriculum and the luncheon at noon until two."
"Uh . . . .no, you're supposed to stay until four."
"Oh, no . . . I have plans to pick my sisters right after the luncheon . . . shoot."

So, yeah, I start my day almost two hours late . . . and planned my day around leaving two hours early. Fan-freakin'-tastic.

So, cleaning goes smoothly, except for feeling embarrassed, lost, and a little out of place (I quickly learned I was only good for taping, labeling, and stacking small boxes . . .), and then the luncheon starts. Having only attended the end of the year workday once before, I had forgotten what happens other than we eat food. That is the point of a luncheon, after all, eating. But this was a luncheon created by women for women (sorry four male teachers), and that means we talk about our feelings. The principal gives a lovely speech and lovely speeches are made about the principal and her assistants, and then they open the floor.
Which means OTHER people are supposed to share.

I should have expected this. This is what happens during our last community meeting (a bi-monthly occurrence in which teachers and parents gather for announcements and the like). They open the floor, and women (sometimes paired with husbands), come to the mic and start gushing about the school, the staff, and their fellow parentals. It’s very sweet and it’s not that the school is undeserving, but it makes me squirm. So. Many. Feelings. Top it off, we all hold hands during that last meeting.
Yep.

Anyways, knowing that’s what our last parent meeting of the year is like, it should have dawned on me that this is what the luncheon would be like (yes, we even held hands again).
It should have registered that, even though share time seemed to be over, I should not move from my seat to go check my phone in the other room.
It should also have occurred to me that I was not hidden in any form or fashion and the principal was scanning the room for more speakers.
But I stood up.
And the principal exclaims energetically, “OH! Sarah’s going to share!”

I suddenly understood what a deer in headlights feels like. “Oh! Oh, no!”
I couldn’t help it. I had to squeak out an objection. It really was an incredibly misunderstanding. Introverts don’t speak publicly or get entangled in emotional business. 

Everyone laughed.
I suppose if I heard someone’s voice suddenly turned into one of the mice from Cinderella, I would laugh, too.

"Um . . . phone . . . husband . . . calling," I manage lamely.
Words were said, I’m not sure what, but I found myself walking up to the mic, saying something about how I can talk if needed.
Lord knows I can gab. And, really, for being an introvert, I LIKE public speaking, hence the job yacking to 78 pubescent teens. I just don't like the emotional, vulnerable kind of public speaking.

Someone called out, “Do you have an announcement for us, Sarah?”

You see, moments before, the principal had commented that my lovely MIL, her right-hand-woman, was considering leaving in a year to be a full-time grandma, and the room was filled with the gasps of women thrilled with the thought of fertility. Oh, and babies. The principal had tried to rectify the situation, but, apparently, it didn’t stick.

I laughed, “Uh no. If there is an announcement, then it’s news to me, too. And, quite frankly, I wouldn’t know where it came from.”

Smooth, Sarah, real smooth. From that statement, one can make two assumptions:
1. Chris and I have no sex whatsoever. Ah-hahahahahaha. No.
 2. I’m a floozy and can’t pinpoint the baby daddy. Again, ha. NO.
Luckily, this doesn’t occur to me until about three days later when I relate the story to my mother, so I am able to ramble on about all sorts of nice things.

 “As many of you know, I graduated from this school, it’s how I met my best friend, Julie, and, later my husband. I didn’t really expect to come back here. Or to Florida. I thought I’d be far away.”

Confused looks meet me. “But you are going far away . . .”

“Yes, which just shows me that God’s plan is unexpected.”
Now you sound like a jerk who doesn’t love them. Sheesh.

“I came back two years ago to teach first grade. I got to work with Sherry, and, if you haven’t talked to Sherry, you should. She’s delightful. Every day I was with these adorable children who just hugged you and said they loved you and all these other funny, funny stories I got to tell my husband. Then this year, I was bumped up to middle school . . . and those kids are insane.”

(Laughter. Thank God).

“They say things and do things and you’re like ‘Seriously? Where did that come from?’”

(Still laughing. Oh, goodness, thank you).

“But they are awesome kids. We had so much fun, and I am going to miss them so, so much next year.”

(“And they’ll miss you!” a teacher/parent called)

“I had always wanted to teach middle school. Um, I went to a middle school run by a woman named Ceil Humphries, some of you may know her, but she made such an impact on my life [oh God, now I’m choking up], that I . . . Oh, gosh! I’m crying! Why is it that when I talk to you people I always cry!” I laugh.

“Just embrace it!” someone calls, so I pull the mic away, start laughing and crying simultaneously.
And.
I.
SNORT.
What can you do but keep laughing and crying, right? How do you even recover from a public snorting??? You don't. You pretend it didn't happen and you move on and hope no one notice.
But you know they did, doggone it.

“So um, *tear, choke,*  I always wanted to do what she did, *tearteartear* and, thank you, so much, for letting me try to be Mrs. Humphries.”
And I hug the principal and dash to my seat where I try to compose myself.

My friend sitting next to me leans over and says, “Ya sure you’re not pregnant? Tears and stuff?”
"No, I'm NOT pregnant," I said, trying not to glare.

And that’s how I ended my last day as a school employee—late, accidental, assumedly secretly fertile, and snorting.

At least they'll never forget me . . .  

And NO, I'M NOT PREGNANT.

From the mind of a tween . . .

Ah, I remember my tween-hood.
My awkward, awkward tween-hood . . . that lasted until I was about nineteen . . .
Luckily, there are no scanned photos to display . . . oh, darn.

Now, I work with tweens . . . and it is such a flashback.  The giggles . . .did I giggle that much? These kids make me laugh. Sometimes, I just about die . . . in the not-laughing kind of way.  Sometimes, I have to fight the laughter. A lot.

Thanks to a long history of Facebook statuses, here are some reasons WHY I try not to laugh until I cry in class:

Randomnosities

• The other night, this text message convo totally went down:
  Me: I'm sneaking cheesecake into a movie theater. I'm so bad-a.
  The Hubs: I knew I married good.
  Except I realized I had forgotten a fork. Shoot.
  When I asked the hubs about his poor grammar, he replied, "Oh yeah, I totally typed 'I married well' and then erased it and put 'good' because I knew it would drive you crazy."
  Touche, sir.

• A week ago, I lectured on Robert Frost with my 7th graders. One student pops up and asks, "Wait, wait! Sorry, but Robert Frost: was he a poet or a booker?"
  And he totally wasn't kidding.  A booker. Good grief. 


• I was horribly depressed today after a little lizard appeared on my windshield, clung to my wipers, and then leaped off my car AS I'M DRIVING IT in an attempt to escape.  I kept screaming for him to stop, to hold on for dear life, but he didn't listen.  Poor little guy.


• As I'm doing my Wii Fit, the hubs strolls by, pauses, then says, "You know, all that 'inhale, exhale' is what you'll be hearing when you're eventually pregnant, and, you know, giving birth."
  .... thirty seconds later ....
  "DANG IT, CHRIS!!! NOW ALL I HEAR IS A WII FIT LABOR COACH!!!"
  No, we're not preggers.


• I think our dog believes she's a person . . . but everyone else says that about their own pups so it must be a common dog-owner delusion.


• It amazes me that, no matter how many times I say THE SAME THING over and OVER again, literally for weeks, every class period, the day before a paper is due and even, believe or not, the day it is to be turned in, I receive emails from students ASKING QUESTIONS about that same topic.  I realize that you're young, a mind filled with important things like the latest Bieber tune and other class projects, but . . . really?
  Then again, I do give them permission to email and ask.  I might just reconsider that and make them take notes instead . . . oh, but wait, all the notes and instructions are online on the school webpage.


• Despite my previous post, I really do sincerely love my job and the kids there. Seriously, I couldn't be happier. It has its stresses, but I have superb students and wonderful classroom families who are so supportive and encouraging. 


• Little things matter and can make someone's day.  For instance, I shared some of my hand lotion with a couple of girls who were early to class. Oh the giggles we shared :]


• We are just NOW (like literally as I type this Chris is testing the lights) decorating our home and tree.  WOW.  The exterior, sadly will remain bland.


• During a midnight showing of "Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows" (FYI: GO SEE IT!!!), I was suddenly made very aware of my own age.
  I was attending with two fellow English teachers (I LOVE being part of a "department"--oh the comradery!), and over a dozen of our high school students decided to "join" us . . . meaning they stalked us into Cheesecake Factory next to the theater and then proceeded to bounce around in the seats right next to or in front of us JUST to bug us (I am not being paranoid here--if I am, it was group paranoia and I merely caught the bug). 
  Anyways, Regal Theaters has that roller coaster intro, you know? And I didn't have even the inkling to raise my arms and scream. Nope.  I watched that group of teens wave their arms about and all I felt was embarrassment (good grief . . . am I really turning into my mother?)
  I also felt sick due to four hours of sleep and four cokes over the course of the day, more soda than I've had since college.
  I also decided that midnight premiers and a 3:30 AM homecoming may be too late for these old bones. 
  Golly.

One Joy

A beautiful and wonderful idea. Thank you Rachel @ Finding Joy

Today, I had the privilege of observing the class I'll be teaching next year.
This means I was able to skip one hour of the first grade extracurricular classes, sit in a corner, and take notes on the procedures used in the middle school English class. My class. Next year.
I cannot contain my excitement.

The people around me can't see to understand why I smile when I think about being trapped all day with 7th and 8th graders, trying to implant the beauty of words and garden understanding.  They see  talkative, hormone-enriched kids with more energy than they should possess. They see all of those research papers piled up over the weekend. I see young minds, young hearts yearning and searching as everything inside and outside is changing. I look at all of that, and my heart just sings.
This morning, I sat in that corner, scribbling doodles and notes, smiling at the curious "sneaky" glances, and just felt something in me light up. Oh, I haven't felt that light in years. That mind-pulsing, heart racing, uncontrollable grin as words are poured out, sifted, and the river stones shed gold. My British literature classes in college did this to me, lit me with the joy of discovery.  I would leave those rooms, my notebook filled with scribbles, my books dogeared, highlighted with messages in the corners, and, good golly, I could change the world. Bloody, that's what I was going to do: change it, change everything with words. Beautiful words. And I'd do it with pizzazz, darn it all.

They were reading e.e. cummings. If a good morning could get better, mr. cummings would do it. 
This is it. This is my place. It's not a big place. It's somewhere celebrities flock or newscasters feature. It will never be in a movie or a book. In fact, it's a place that will probably slip through entirely unnoticed. But it's my place. He's given me my place.
And I am so, so excited.

Changing it up

You can't say that civilization doesn't advance, however, for in every war they kill you in a new way.

--Will Rogers

As I write this, I have one cat in my lap, trying to simultaneously climb onto the keyboard and steal the hair tie around my wrist, and another in a corner somewhere, most likely puking or recovering from puking. It's been about 8 times a day since Tuesday morning. Yup.
Yes, I'm a horribly person for not bringing her to the vet, but we were kinda hoping it would pass . . . you know . . . and save me $200. No such luck. Still flitting around, chasing, playing, and snuggling . . . just puking . . . a lot.That vet trip had better work miracles. I'm about out of carpet cleaner -_-

Be ye warned: those of you wanting pets, people aren't lying--it's freakn expensive . . . and messy. Fun and lovable, but oh my goodness work.

Really, I'm not posting to talk about the cats; they just happen to be foremost on my mind. Oh the puke  . . .

I'm going out on a limb here in the next three months. Those of you who know me know I do not like limbs. I'm a feet on the ground kind of person. Flat ground. With the horizon and path clearly in view. Few surprises. So, this summer, God has put a tree in my path, with me on a limb. Do or die. Leap.

Unless something happens between now and Tuesday, I'm pretty sure I'm not going back to teaching next fall. Not because I don't love the school--my employers are beyond fabulous, the kids and families are wonderful--it's just not me. All through high school I saw myself as a teacher--language arts for middle school or high school. I started college and changed my mind--everyone was doing teaching. It seemed so much more distinguished to be a pure-blooded English Lit major--head in my books, discussing the meaning of life, random hidden symbolism in the mention of stepping stools, the true condition of man, the proper use of the comma--important, life-changing things like that. English Education? What on earth could you do with an education major?

WHY DIDN'T SOMEBODY SLAP ME?!?

Don't get me wrong: I LOVED my major. I thrived in lit class. But what on earth do I use it for?? "Anything with communication," people said. "Politics, law, anything."
I hate to ask, but, were you fibbing just to make me feel better? That wasn't very nice, kind-hearted intent as it was.

All that to say, I have almost finished my first year of teaching, and it's just not a fit. It's been a fun year of learning and exactly where I needed to be right now. It's just not where I think I should stay.
And that scares me.
The job hunt scares me. The only time I've ever left a job is when I already have something new lined up. All my dominoes set to go. Poke, and they're off!
Not this time

I want to try to get into a publishing house. I know I'd start out as a peon, but the thought of being able to discover new talent, to pick up a document and say, "This, this is something special, and you, well, you kid, have a gift. Congratulations. You get to share it with the world." That thrills me. I realize it probably won't be like that--there will be a lot of rubble to sort through before you find the gem, and, often, it's the rubble that sells, fake stones polished on the shelves while diamonds gather dust.
I might not find anything, but, hey, at least I have a direction. I may get there, and I may hate it, but then that just means I get to try something new again.

I like new things :]

Now, if you'll excuse me . . . Cat is retching and I can't find the puke . . . Treasure hunt, anyone?

You know what they say about assuming . . .

Allow me to explain now the worst assumption I believe I have made in recent history . . .
To begin, there are two little girls of the same name in my class, we will call them Lily E. and Lily S. to protect the innocent.This is a fact so vital that even I didn't notice it at first, as so many vitals go rather unnoticed in this world.

So, it's lunch time on a Friday. That's just a disaster in itself. You see, at my school, Friday is an optional extracurricular day . . . which, in essence, means all the children turn into over-sugared banshees of a sort . . . in an only mild exaggeration. It is not at all an exaggeration on smoothie/ice-skating day. Oh my lanta. Anywho, back to the point. Lunch on Fridays consists of altering between Domino's Pizza and Chik-Fil-A. This was a pizza day for our students who order hot lunch. I come down to the gym to pick up my pizzas to nourish the first grade class, and the lady in charge firmly and clearly says, "Lily E. is no longer ordering hot lunch, so she will have a lunch from home today--she will not get pizza." Easy enough.
How is it that the seemingly simple never is?

Now, little Lily E., is a quiet, sensitive child with a perpetual worried puppy-eyed expression, always seeming on the brink of tears. She saw that pizza, and you could see desire in her eyes, so quickly squelched by my announcement, "Lily, I'm sorry honey, but the office says you no longer get hot lunch."
Silent, confused "I'm about to cry" stare. Finally, she opens her mouth with the barely audible "But it's on my nametag that I get hot lunch."
"Yes, honey, but the office said that you no longer get hot lunch. Do you have a lunch with you?" I ask, thinking I can salvage a couple of pieces for her, if there was a mix-up and she was truly without food.
She shakes her head, her pleading puppy dog eyes hardening into hatred.
"Honey, you don't get hot lunch any more. Can you show me your lunch box and will check for your lunch?"
Death glare.
"Lily, where's your lunch box?"
I-hate-you-with-every-fiber-of-my-being-stare.

At that moment, my friend Cait entered the scene, took Lily aside, in tears now, and was able to weasel out of her where her lunch box was while Lily whimpers that she wants to go home, quit E-Zone and just go home. I pick up that pink princess lunchbox, unzip it, and find the prettiest, neatest little sandwich half, chips, and apple juice packed snuggly away. "Lily, this is such a yummy lunch."
She shakes her head, eyes red-rummed. "I don't like it."
"Lily, this is a perfectly good lunch."
Silent shaking of the head, glaring, pitiful puppy eyes.

So we take her to the office where she eats in silence, still recovering from the emotional wreckage of my lunch-time announcement, then goes to third period. I, meanwhile, leave third period for my lunch break, and one of the staff announces, "Oh, Sarah, Lily's not going to the sportsplex, today. She's going home early."
"Is it because of her meltdown?" I ask.
"I don't know. Her mom's picking her up early, so she'll need to go to the pick-up area in room 210. "
It never ever EVER crossed my mind to ask WHICH Lily was not going to the sportsplex. 

So, third period ends, and the kids get ready to go either to ride the bus to the sportsplex or go to the drop off room. I approach Lily E. "Lily, you're not going to the sportsplex today."
There it is. That I'm going to cry face again. "No, I'm going to the sportsplex."
"Honey, I just spoke to the office and they said your mom is picking you up. You need to get your backpack so I can bring you to the pick-up room."
She sits back down and begins coloring.
"Lily, you need to go get your things, please."
Not a word. As if she couldn't hear me.
"Lily." I can feel my own temper-rising.
Nothing.
"Lily, go get your things." Firmer now, a real teacher voice that means business, and still not an eyelash bats in response.
The other teacher in the room steps in, "Lily, obey Mrs. Bocchino and go get your things. I'll bring you to the pick-up room."
She obeys, casting one more bitter, hateful glare in my direction.

That is the last I hear of Lily E., though Lily S.'s mom picks her up right as class ends and takes her home instead of going to the sportsplex like she usually does. Did it cross my mind that maybe I had sent the wrong Lily to pick-up? Nope, not once. Lily E. wanted to go home, suddenly, I receive news that a Lily is going home early. Which Lily? Not the one I sent to pick-up -_-

As I'm chaperoning the swimming class at the sportsplex,  I receive a call from Lisa, my mother-in-law who works in the school office, sweetly asking what the mix-up had been. It didn't dawn on me until her call that I have TWO Lilys. Luckily, Lily E.'s mother was contacted before too long and she was taken home safe and sound. I immediately apologized to my supervisor, who laughed and said things like that had happened before, so it was all ok.

That doesn't keeping me from being humiliated. I'm apologizing to Lily's mom next time I see her . . . and Lily, if she'll speak to me. I'm beyond positive that she officially hates my guts now.


What a day . . .

Text Message Mix-Ups

Yesterday, a student came up to me and said, "Mrs. Bocchino, my mom got your text about you and your husband . . . you know . . . " And she gave me that shy smirk we all wear when we've found something naughty.

Now, I don't send those text messages, but, every once in a while, something comes up that's for Chris's eyes only. My phone is a touch screen, and, sometimes scrolling through contacts will accidentally select more than one name so . . . Panic much?

"Honey, what text message?"

"Oh . . . you know . . . "

I'm checking my Sent Text. "No, hon, I never texted your mom." And then a lightbulb. "'Leyna, was it my blog? You know, an online journal with stories about Mr. Bocchino and me?"



She was talking about the banner on here. You know, because there's PDA. And, when your seven, PDA is so scandalous.

May I just say that my relief made the day so much better?

Hi-ho! hi-ho! It's off to work I go!

It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do.

--Jerome K. Jerome

 You know, I could get used to this not-going-to-work thing. My apartment is spotless and has stayed spotless for the first time in ages. I got all caught up on laundry. I tried two new recipes AND kept my kitchen clean. I went to three family events and brought delisciousness to each. I had a friend over and made her lunch . . . then played Donkey Kong Country (the oldschool super NES DK . . . Ooo ho I love it!).  I think all the cleaning even got the cats to stop making messes on the carpet (oh please! oh please! oh please!). I started my Christmas shopping. Golly, if I don't feel like the most efficient housewife since June Cleaver.
And, after this weekend, I'm afraid it all will end.
School starts back up, along with lesson-planning and parent-emails. I checked my in-box today and the stomach knots came back. Any time now, they'll begin again.
School vacation as a teacher is pretty much like school vacation as a student: it's beautiful, relaxing, energizing, and over waaaay too soon. The difference is that as a student, I wasn't worried about the pay-cut.

Today, I'm getting myself ready by updating my gradebook. And doing a self-evaluation survey. Is it just me, or does anyone else just HATE those?
"Tell us about your weakness."
If I do, you're not going to fire me, are you?
"Tell us about your strengths."
If I do . . . are you going to find me an arrogant jerk? Or hopeless?
"What can you do to improve?"
Aw, come on, I'm trying! I'm doing the work, man!
Ug.
My comfort lies in the fact that my employers are awesome and want me to succeed. They've known me and my family for years and years, so they're cheering for me. I just hope I don't let any one down.
I wonder if I'd do better teaching an older grade--my passions are literature and history, the language arts. The discovery of the secret codes of words, the symbolism, discovering the human character and condition through a story. It's a treasure hunt! And I don't know if kids understand that, or if they can be shown that it's really fun and it's not rocket science. It's a thinking science, learning to look beyond appearance. But, if I am given first grade, I will do my best in first grade. Plus, the kiddos are so stinkin cute! I cannot tell you how many hugs and pictures covered in "I love Mrs. Bocchino" I receive. It's a wonderful thing! :]

Soon, I update on some of the "random" things going on around here . . . the Sushi/Sashimi night . . . the Christmas tree . . . the hair cut fiasco . . . the plague of cat puke . . . . the in-laws' flying squirrel . . . maybe all in one post. I dunno. We'll see if I survive the return to the classroom first. Dun-dun-DA-DUN!!!

Now, the question remains: Indiana Jones, Star Wars, or LOTR marathon? I can't do my gradebook in complete silence, you know ;]

What about you? How was your Thanksgiving? Did you go on vacation? OR how about your favorite old school video game?

Weary

I made a sound that was something like crying.
--Ingrid Michaelson, "Men of Snow"

It has been one HECK of a week.
It started Monday, even though I didn't know it until the next morning. Monday, my step-grandfather passed away. Lung Cancer. That's all there is. There isn't any more.
We weren't close. He was a good, sweet man, but he hadn't spoken to my family in over a year. It's complicated and it's not. There was a disagreement between my mother and her mother, his wife. My grandmother doesn't like being disagreed with, even when there are efforts to reconcile. My step-grandfather didn't like people upsetting his woman. So there you have it. Silence. Then he's dead. Just like that. They found the mass in his lung, and that was it. The end.

My mom called me Tuesday morning to let me know that Jack was gone.
Funeral was Wednesday. I didn't cry. I'm not a crier. I stood there sweating at the graveside service, listening to my mother's uncle smack on chewing gum behind me, and not a tear. The minister made jokes, and nobody laughed. I don't know how to express sorrow to people in mourning. I know nothing I say will make it better; I don't know how to react to the outpouring of emotion. I try, I feel for them, but everything I say is so inadequate. So I whisper I'm sorry to all of these people I don't know. I left that morning at 11:00 to meet up with my family for the funeral. I didn't get home until 9:00 PM, with so much to get ready for class the next day.

Thursday, the principal made trips to new teachers' classes, just observing so she could give them a pre-evaluation evaluation to help them better manage their classrooms. She called me into her office, and I was terrified. I love my boss, and I know she loves me, but golly, terror. She starts talking, and I just lose it. I am sobbing in that leather seat, choking on tissues, and I cannot stop. I haven't cried like that since I was fifteen, when my biggest crush asked out my friend instead of me, then both stopped speaking to me. That's the only other time I remember sobbing. I couldn't pull it together. I am the queen of emotional control and I could not reel myself in. I'm so stressed about pleasing every single parent with my teaching, and that's impossible. Jack was dead, I would never see him again, and I don't know how to ever be normal with my grandmother. I was stressed, I was tired, and, for the first time in my life, I was mourning. And I could not stop.

I had to stop. Had to try. I still had a phonics lesson and spelling test to get through. I had just managed to pull it together when my kids came darting in from lunch. One little girl looked at me, stopped, frowned and said, "Mrs. Bocchino, why are you crying?"
The Hoover Dam could not have held my flood back. "My grandpa died." I've never called him grandpa. He was "my step-grandfather" or "Mr. Jack," never grandpa. Not until he was dead and buried. So my students crowded around to give me hugs; some offered, "my grandpa died, too," and one little girl wrote "I love you" on scraps of paper and passed them to me. They were all angels for the rest of the day. I think they were afraid I would break like a china doll.

That night I had my first Bible study group. I had forgotten about it until I found a piece of mail from our current church on the table. My mother-in-law is attending it with me, and was kind enough to give me a ride.  I went, stressed about everything I have to finish, stressed about Jack and the aftermath, stressed about my job, and I was refreshed, even if it was only for two hours. The women there shared much bigger stories than mine, much harder circumstances, and it made me want to shut up and deal. No matter how small my circumstances are, though, God cares, and God wants to carry me through. I'm not alone.

Friday came and went. I worked, I ran errands, I cleaned, I cooked. I cleaned cat-poop off of the carpet because the newest fad is to crap not in the litter box but right beside it and try to bury it in the carpet. Cute. I refused to turn on my computer because I couldn't stand to see school emails. I didn't want to deal with it. I bought new litter, and Chris hates because it smells funny, so one of us is going to make a grocery run to replace the new litter. It was one more thing I failed. How silly. I was upset over cat litter choices.Chris even said it wasn't a big deal, it wasn't my fault, but it was one more burden I carried. Cat litter. How ridiculous.

I am weary. Jack is dead. I don't know how to speak to my grandmother. I am doing my very best at this school, loving their children, and still some parents are unhappy with me. I don't know how to deal with that. I feel like a heartless failure. I don't know what else to do. I'm looking for the confidence I have never possessed. I can't find it.It's out there, God is holding it out to me on a silver platter, but it feels so far away.

So today, I am purposefully allowing myself a mini vacation. My husband gave me permission, with a smile, to veg a bit. Still, I answer parent emails, my stomach clenching as I open my inbox, and I write lesson plans. I will clean because I hate that I'm a clutterbug.

I am weary. I think that's the only way to say it. Weary.