Reading is Power

I walked into my former employer's middle school, where I happily taught for 5 years before I moved out of my element into high school journalism, full well knowing that it was not only a tricky job, as most high school journalism teaching jobs are, but also because the high school was affectionately known as "the shark tank."  Here I was leaving the friendly waters of my confines of teaching gifted kids and working with reading teachers in a coaching model - where I had it safe, where I had it good, and where I could balance my life a bit.

I took this job so that I could stretch myself, be stimulated, and grow as a teacher.  Little did I realize how I would be begging for approval, all over myself - from my family, my ex husband, my kids, my principals (and there were many) and the parents of my students.  I was reminded of this, when, in my trepidation thinking about entering that building, and hanging my head low so I wouldn't be recognized.  But alas, I could not hide my face, my mannerisms, or who I was.  One by one, as dismissal was proceeding, and I walked with my eyes focused on the cracks of the sidewalk, on every blade of grass I passed by, my former colleagues greeted me with a smile, a wave, a greeting and hugs.  

At first, I looked up at them as if to earn back their approval, but as I looked in their eyes, I realized I already had it.

And as I walked into the cafeteria, and greeted reading specialists from all over the County, some

familiar, some not so familiar, I realized I was back in my element.  I was fortunate enough to listen to Yaris and Burkins about the very same philosophy of teaching reading that I espouse - let the kids do the work.  It shouldn't be the teacher doing the rain dance around them while the kids point and have their hands out waiting for the spoons of information and "right" answers we feed them in order to think we're making a difference.  Their books, "Reading Wellness," and "How to Say Less so Kids Say More," are great reminders of the metacognition that has to go on in kids' heads when they read.  Self-efficacy is more than half the battle with struggling readers.  

So, I became enthused and invigorated and renewed by what I heard, and although most of the crowd were elementary reading specialists, I realize the value of their advice applied to not only beginning readers, but those in middle school who word call, and those in high school stretching to understand "Beowulf" and Shakespeare, and those in middle age who still struggle with life in general.

And then they closed their talk with the reference to the blog entry about P.D. Eastman's book "Go, Dog, Go."  Now, that brought me to my own a-ha moment, my revelation, my own metacognition about my struggle.

Not only was that story so bittersweet to me in my reminiscent mood that I was already entrenched in -- because it was one of the only stories, if not THE only story, that my youngest son, Jack, would have me read to him - over, and over, and over, and over again --  but because of the underlying message that I never got, even though I reread and reread and reread this book umpteen times.  By the time he was in 1st grade, I was "Go, Dog, Go"'ed out.  I told myself if I never saw that book again, it would be too soon.

But no - I didn't see the female dog, begging for attention, so desperately seeking approval from one lone male dog, who lorded his superiority over her, and so crassly and carelessly, without filter,

dismissed her.  I didn't see her outrageous attempts for attention, her desperate cries to be worthy, to call out and seek recognition and validation.  Until.....Yaris and Burkins brought that blog post up in closing.  

You see, you can be 5, and you can be breaking the words apart, segmenting and blending, but not understand what you are reading, and you can be 8, and concentrating so hard on the words that you miss the picture that is giving you the clues as to the meaning, and you can be 13 and looking to your teacher to ask, "Is this good?  Is this right?" and you can definitely be 16 and completely skipping the

reading instead turning to Cliff's Notes for the abridged version because you just don't "get" it.  Or you can be 52 and realizing for the first time that you don't need to wear some crazy version of a party hat to fit in and that any male dog that treats you like crap shouldn't faze you.  Or for that matter, any dog at all. 

So, you go, girl.  You wear ANY hat you want, and don't you beg for attention, don't you beg for approval. You are in and of itself the epitome of just enough.  

Reading is power.  Rereading is more power.  Even when you're 52.

Resuming the Blogging Life

After many years away from my blog, I've decided to return.  Why?  You might ask.....

Well, the title of my blog says it all.  It was a phrase from my most favorite (yes, I used the superlative form) book in the whole wide world.  It spoke to me as an impressionable sophomore being taught, at that time, by a not-so-aging hippie English teacher (you know who you are, lady, and you were so, so, so influential in this woman's life) who seemed to have Bob Dylan hanging off her lips and the fresh draggings of the Woodstock earth off her bell bottoms.  I thought she could be my sister; she was the ying to my own mother's yang.  Combined with many other influential women of the English Department of Crystal Lake Central High School, who complemented her free spirit thumbing-in-the-face-of-the-man laissez faire teaching of Salinger and Fitzgerald, and even Flowers for Algernon, I learned to care about people.  I learned that language and communication was the way to heal people.

And so here I am again, trying to make this a consistent habit.  I never seem to be good at "habits."  Either the habit gets the best of me, or I don't get the best of it.  I guess it's my prolonged day-dreaming, my ADHD as my critics would define it, that keeps me from consistency.  For me, in my own little world, I just like to try new things.  I get bored.  I get listless.  I get wanderlust.  For everything - sometimes even people.  In any case, I'm trying to get grounded. I'm trying to stick to a few things and get better at them, instead of being a "Jill of all trades."

One thing I think I am really good at is being the catcher in the rye.  I'm so good at it that it's even come to hurt me, to haunt me, and to rule my own existence.  I can't help it.  I was raised by an adult child of an alcoholic and a dry drunk.  I'm not so new at addictive relationships.  Heck, domestic violence was the modus operandi by which I grew up.

So I tried always to be the champion of the underdog, the "mother hen" of everyone.  I don't think I was bossy, but I became so in my later life, in attempts to grasp at control, and in attempts to remain in control of my own life.  Some way, I got pinned with being an angry person, which if anyone truly knew me understood that was just a mask for my wall I put up that was supposed to communicate, "Don't tread on me."

I hope to write about my story, my life and my yearnings here.  And I hope to communicate to heal.  You might read angry ramblings of my disappointments, my failed relationships, my wounds of inner childhood, but you also might read my blabbering of my successes, my aha moments, my winning the war against myself, and the thrill of victory of my own accomplishments.

I'm just a regular person, but I've had some irregular situations happen to me.  Rather than wallow in the bowl of the pits of cherries, I'm taking control and decorating my bowl the way I like it.  Yeah, there might be some pits.  But I'm going to clean them off, paint them with my colors, and make them to shine like the sun and hold them up for everyone to see.

I hope you learn something. I hope I can inspire you.  And I hope that this will continue to heal me in hearing my words.  Hopefully, I'll can really be my own catcher in the rye.

And while I've been "around the [proverbial] block a few times," the Pollyanna me, the Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm me, the me that wants to love and catch everyone, resists using the winning strategy.  Maybe, just maybe, yes, I do still want to keep all of my kings in the back row.  One thing is for sure, I'm not a phoney.  And yes, maybe by telling the Interwebz, I'm not really telling anyone, so I don't start to miss anyone but my true self.

The Running Saga Continues

So, remember yesterday, when I said I would have to do the Christmas Virtual 5K in two parts, since yesterday's Christmas Eve Frostbite Series short course race was only 2M.

Well, who could have asked for a more perfect Christmas Day to run in?  My computer said 48 degrees when we left, but my car said 52, and my body definitely said it was 60s.

I had spied this route driving in and out of Fenton, and I decided that it would be a perfect day to try it, although, when I went to Fleet Feet in Fenton to get Boy #2 (PITA) a jacket to go with his tights and gloves, I discussed this route with the sales guy there, and my husband thought it was Simpson Park, but the sales guy said no, but couldn't remember it.

Even though, the route was a little different than I had planned it in my mind, as I thought that there would be trails the entire route on the river side of the road, if I just parked my car under the Route 30 bridge over the Meramec and then ran all the way up past under the Hwy 44 bridge over the Meramec and into this "park."

A lot of the route, we had to run the side of the road, but it being Christmas Day, traffic was light and people were merry.  No running anyone off the side of the road like in other routes I've experienced (my usual up Summit Road route).

When I say we, I mean the PITA boy.  For Christmas, Santa brought him a new MacBook Pro laptop, mostly out of his commiseration for PITA's parents, who are driven crazy nightly by the Skyping late-night hours of PITA and his server-running-entrepreneurial shenanigans that are conducted on the family Mac Mini on the kitchen desk.

Yes, before you say something, I realize that we should not allow our young freshman to entertain online guests in his room, but he is our last, and we made that fateful mistake with our other two.  What the heck - why not pay for therapy for all three - even it out and make it fair playing field for all of them.

Most of all, it will really keep my husband's sanity on production late nights for the publications, and we actually might get to reclaim the 60" big screen television that is now host to trashy television and Lord knows what late night sessions go on there, since we often find PITA, and sometimes his Jack Sprat-wife big brother, asleep on the sectional we had to buy so there was an appropriate amount of lounging-around space for all the big people in the family.

Anyway....I digress.  But the genius thing I did as a parent this Christmas morning was to tell him he could not set up this computer until he came out and ran 6 miles with me on this route.  I tried to tell him that Dad did not want me running this route alone, and that it would be good for him, and that we had quality Mom-Son outdoors time, but I really didn't have to twist his arm much.

That is until we got 2 miles out past the 44 bridge, and he said, "How much longer?"  I, having my headphones in and blasting my customarily loud 70s and 80s music, thought he said, "I need to pee on a log."  And I told him to go right ahead.  He looked at me like I was whack, and of course, he continued ahead of me all the way through. When we first started, he was poking me, poking me, poking me (not in the Facebook sense of the word either - like literally and physically).  And this is where I started to question my genius parenting skills.

We went behind the Soccer Park and up to Unger Park, the name of which we had all forgotten, which turned out to be a real treasure of a tucked away nature preserve.  It was me and PITA, and some dude, who told PITA it was the only place he could be alone, and appeared to Mom to be imbibing on some adult beverage out of a steel Thermal water bottle.  But he left us alone, to our own devices, and I made a mental note to come back and explore this park.  At that point, we were 3 miles out, and I needed to honestly tell PITA it was time to turn back or he'd really start to hate me, but that place was cool, and if it's nice, I'm actually thinking of going back tomorrow to run just a mile farther than we did today.

At about 3.5 miles, PITA stops to say he's dehydrated and that we both should take a break.  I give him some water and electrolyte stuff I always carry on an hour long run or more.  He guzzles it, and says, "Well, if you're not stopping, I'm going."  He mutters something about me training for this and him not.

We finally make it back to civilization, and now we're joined by another female runner, who is way bundled up inappropriately, and a couple couples walking big dogs.  He walks slowly over the footbridge to the car, stretches, and notes that he has blisters on his toes.

And then says, "Now are ya happy?  Can I just go home and use my computer now?"

Still got in a recovery paced long-ish run on Christmas, with my son, and completed the Virtual 5K, maybe not with the fastest time, but the certainly with the best partner.

Yes, PITA, Mom's happy!

Finding My Way

So....I think I'm finding my way again. It took me until today, when all the kids and hubby were gone, to hear myself talk. I'm almost comfortable being alone again, when now, I have to go get ready to go to a friend's hubby's 40th birthday. I feel like being alone.

So I've definitely been better about my eating habits and my lifestyle, and I feel like I'm just getting reacquainted with life. I'm feeling more energetic, so therefore, I feel like I can clean and organize my life a little more (if my husband reads this, pretend I'm feeling sick today)!

My life seems to have roadmapped itself this way: teens - angst and passion for my identity, 20's - following and belonging, 30's - lost and tethered, 40's - rushing and bustling, and now, maybe I can look forward to a Renaissance during my 50's?

I sure hope so, because this shuttling kids, volunteering, losing my body image and fitness, getting sick, falling apart kind of middle age truly sucks!