It’s true – I’ve taught schoolchildren for real money. Several times, actually. Granted, the pay wasn’t all that great since I was merely responsible for educating the future of America, but I proudly wore the teacher’s mantle. Now that I crunch the numbers I see my first year’s students have crested thirty, voted in a number of elections, and likely have families of their own.
Holy crap, I’m old.
I’ve found that you never really lose that teacher voice, though, and it’s come in handy in my second (third? fourth?) career as a frequent flyer volunteer in the elementary school. But as for today’s post, let’s start looking at those teacher adventures, shall we?
Over the years I’ve had a bit of a love/hate relationship with my kitchen. For ages it’s been a place of drudgery, a room I’d merely tolerate as I tried in vain to appreciate the art of cooking. After all, what wasn’t to love? There are whole shows dedicated to the joys of cooking…an entire industry predicated upon the love people have for preparing food.
So who was I to hate the kitchen?
Be it my place or not, though, it’s how I felt for years. Which is why I’m positively bumfuzzled by the turn of events in our house these days.
When it rains, it pours is a real thing in our house. Seriously. Every once in a while we have 48 hours of dramatic life lessons, one after another, until I am convinced we will all end up cocooned in our beds, rocking ourselves to sleep.
Sometimes hope comes from the most unlikely of sources. Like, say, a high school student, whose heartfelt explanation of how it will get better poured over my weary parent soul like fresh water to a drowning man.
There were four birds perched at the feeder on Saturday morning, with a fifth queued up on the pole. It’s the first sign I’ve seen that our birds can share space. Apparently there’s been some sort of solo feeding rule in place while they acclimate to the feeder.
Bear’s basketball team heads into the tournament with a 6 wins, 6 losses record. They’ll play their first game tomorrow afternoon. Bring the heat, ladies!
Irony of ironies, I’m getting fillings replaced on Valentine’s Day. That’s right, folks…I will be kicking off Love Day with Novocaine injections and that god awful sound of a drill grinding into my teeth. Pray for my dentist.
Oh my gosh, you guys. Are you completely sick of listening to me talk about food? This isn’t even a food blog – me, writing a food blog? snort! – yet here I am yammering on about what I can eat, what I can’t, and the bizarre life changes that have befallen me at forty-seven. My instagram feed now consists almost entirely of a) adorable photos of my dogs and b) pictures of food.
Because why wouldn’t my instagram followers be fascinated by my dietary adventures? Omelette with kale and mozzarella? Pecan crusted salmon? YUM.
…to own a pet.
We’re not talking about a little kid’s pleas here: Can we get a puppy? Please? Please? Please please please please, pretty pretty please with sugar on top? I’ll walk him and feed him and brush him every day. Nope. You’re a grown a** adult (or at least in your twenties), and you’re wondering if now’s a good time to search for a furry friend at the local animal shelter.
Let’s take a look at that, shall we?
You know, come to think of it, refusing to do stuff is one of the perks of getting older.
“One great thing about getting older is that you can just refuse to do things.
It is an interesting power that you first wield as infant and small child, lose throughout much of your childhood and then slowly regain as you get older…
Making banana bread – Adults everywhere seem to want to make bread out of fruits and other items that are going bad. Got some bad bananas, it’s a super time to make banana bread! It’s the same thing with zucchini bread, pumpkin bread and other similar items. These are all fine breads (except that I hate bananas), but I have no interest in making them and I don’t ever want to save bananas or other rotting fruits or vegetables so that I can turn them into bread. I will, however, eat pumpkin bread, zucchini bread, cranberry bread and other breads that other people make.”
Top Five Perfectly Normal Things That I Refuse To Do: Nick Claussen
It’s been two years since I woke to a day without my mom. Two years since that jolt of knowing her journey here was over and the days of quietly holding her hand had ended.
It’s been two years, but my heart and head are still at odds.
I can’t believe she’s gone. I feel that reverberate in my bones then, close on its heels, Mom was finally released from her pain and is in heaven…it seems other people take comfort in that when their loved ones die, but I don’t feel overwhelming joy when I say it. Maybe that makes me a bad Christian. Maybe it makes me conflicted. Maybe it just means I miss my mom. Either way it leads me back to I can’t believe she’s gone.
Moments still take my breath away. That scene in the movie Wonder – the one where flashbacks with grandma reveal how close the granddaughter felt to her – knocked me off my feet. I found myself frozen in the theater, acutely aware of Bear beside me and the ache I feel when I think of her and my mom.
It’s been two years, but it feels like just yesterday.
Only one more day before I roll into 47 which naturally means I’m thinking about my halfway-there To Do List. As BrightSide kindly pointed out to Bear recently we’ve pretty much reached the midpoint…his commentary on average life spans and how we’re on the other side of that mountain so utterly horrified Bear, she’ll have fodder for years of counseling.
Don’t say we never did anything for our kids.