Reflections – Inhale Grace

February 18, 2026

4am

I went to bed last night in wool socks and thermal pants and a hoodie. I woke up at 4am, burning from the inside, and frantically stripped down to a tank top and my underwear. My husband jokes, “Who needs a furnace with you in the bed?” He tries to put his arm around my waist and pull in close. I shove him away. “I love you but you CANNOT touch me right now. I will combust.”

As I lay there, it occurs to me that I haven’t had a hot flash like this in a while. And it is at that moment, I realize I’ve forgotten to replace my estrogen patch. To be honest, I wasn’t sure it was working, but I stand corrected. It is a bit of a relief to realize that I can chemically prevent these hot flashes and night sweats. But the 4am wake up has been pretty consistent, regardless of my body temperature or my medication.

Sometimes it’s the dog. She’s an old lady with a bladder tumor. No matter how late we let her out, it’s pretty much a guarantee that she’ll scratch the bedframe between 3 and 4am… her way of saying, “Let me out or I’ll pee on your rug.”

Sometimes it’s my own bladder that wakes me up. Other times it’s my husband’s restless legs. In the past I was able to register these things, roll over, and go back to sleep.

But my brain will no longer allow that. The 4am wakeup has become time to contemplate every thought I pushed aside during the day.

My internal monologue admonishes me. You shouldn’t be self-deprecating in a job interview. You blew it. She questions me. Are you pushing this kid hard enough? Are you pushing too much? She reminds me of all the ways I should be a better person. Volunteer more. Eat better. Clean the garage. Call your parents. She worries about things beyond her control. Government corruption. Human rights violations. War. Violence. Freaking Epstein. Cancer. Climate change. She realizes she’s spiraling and tries to reign it in. Deep breaths. Clear your mind. Box breathing. 5 things you see. 4 things you feel. 3 things you hear. Is that a train? Ugh. The neighbor’s dog is barking again. How many freaking dogs do they have over there?

It’s a relief when the 5am alarm buzzes. That voice in my head doesn’t go away, but she fades to the background. She starts to focus on the day-to-day things that keep me occupied. Brew the coffee. Feed the dog. Water the plants. She can focus on the things that bring me joy. Hot shower. Gorgeous yarn. Hilarious kids.

I’m on vacation this week; February break is a welcome respite from the midwinter chaos of middle school. These 4am wake-ups feel less disruptive when I can manage the pace of the rest of my day. So I’m easing into things over here. I’m sipping on my second cup of coffee, quietly strategizing how to balance my errands and my lunch plans and my crochet project. I realize how lucky I am to have this moment. How lucky I am to have these ordinary days… and occasional sleepless nights.

December 10, 2025

Bored

My husband sometimes wakes up on a Sunday and tells me he has a lot to do. When I inquire further, he might explain, “I have to do laundry, and fix the door, and watch a football game.” Any more than three items on his list, and he can’t commit. No promises.

In response, I’ll look at my to-do list for the day. It contains twenty-three items and an optional four more “in case I have time.”

I don’t know how to be bored. I remember making a study schedule in High School. It blocked my day into 15-minute increments so that I could squeeze in a biology review between school and my part-time job, or finish my algebra in between piano lessons and babysitting.

I remember having a panic attack in college because my steel drum band rehearsal went a little long, and I needed to squeeze in dinner before my waitressing shift, which would back right up into my RA duty.

Sitting still is not my forte.

I built a life around that busy-ness. Teaching. Kids. Church. Bell Choir. Book club. Curriculum committee. Fundraising. Pie making. Tutoring. Crochet class. Yoga. Crafting. Cleaning. Cooking. So much cooking…

Football games. School plays. Driving places. Driving back. Taxidermy class (not mine). Choir rehearsal (also not mine). Game nights with friends and pot lucks and drinks with colleagues after work.

*****

Today, I woke up early and put dinner in the crock pot. I taught all day and I ran a crochet club after school. I stayed a little late to finish up tomorrow’s copying and lesson plans. But I didn’t want to go home.

I cannot abide the thought of another night of television, or crocheting, or diamond art. I don’t want to clean another thing or cook another thing or read another thing.

I am bored.

Bored.

Bored??

Who am I? “Only boring people get bored,” my dad used to tell me. “Find something to do.”

*****

Of course there are things to do. I can write. I can read or crochet or cook. I suppose I could make plans with friends. Or go shopping. Paint the ceiling. Fold some laundry.

Exercise is probably a better option. I need something that raises my heart rate. I need a little adrenaline in my life. The older I get, the more I gravitate toward ‘comfortable’ leisure. I love sitting by my fireplace in cozy clothes. I love sipping wine with friends at a local restaurant. I love learning a new stitch and knotting yarn into something beautiful.

But I miss the feeling of riding my motorcycle too fast around a hairpin curve. I miss the thrill of being lost in a new city. I dream about spring break; drunken karaoke and parasailing and truth or dare.

What do you do for an adrenaline rush in your 40s? I don’t have the money for travel. I don’t have the stamina for running. I’ve lost the desire to bungee-jump.

Is this why people play pickleball?

Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like? An almost-empty nest? Am I going to be the kind of person who takes up polar plunging or skeet shooting?

*****

I’m in my kitchen, making tea, with John Mellencamp singing in the background. “Life goes on… long after the thrill of living is gone.” Damn. I loved that song when I was 16. It lands differently at 46.

But I have to believe he’s a little bit wrong. The thrill can’t be gone. It didn’t disappear. I just stopped seeking it. I stopped taking risks. I stopped trying new things. I stopped meeting new people.

Not on purpose. Just because I have a beautiful, full, fulfilling life. I stopped seeking because I had found what I was looking for.

And as these kids grow and leave, as I move closer to retirement, I’m catching glimpses of what comes next. I was so busy building this part that I forgot to plan for the next part.

*****

The more I think about it, the more it seems obvious that THIS is the answer. I’ve written myself out of my funk. It’s what has always worked for me.

Writing is my solace and my gift and my prayer. It connects me to myself and to the divine and to you.

For years, I’ve imagined what it would look like to focus more on writing; to strive for something published; to gain an audience for my musings.

I just looked back. I started this blog in 2017. Eight years ago. Back then, I didn’t really have time for writing. I woke at 4am to jot down my thoughts before the kids got up. I hid in my bedroom and typed while dinner roasted in the oven. I wrote in the car during football practice. Nearly a decade of stolen moments, necessary for my sanity.

One hundred and fifty-seven posts. More than 300 pages. That’s something. It’s a start, anyway.

Talk about an adrenaline rush. I can’t think of anything scarier than a book proposal. I think I’m done being bored. Thanks for the advice, Dad.

Time to prove Mellencamp wrong. Wish me luck.

October 13, 2025

Storm

I stepped away from my church a few months ago. I know, I know. It was a surprise to me, too. I love my church. I love those people. But all that love coupled with my lack of boundaries created a toxic sense of obligation. I was trying to minister to the young people and take care of the older people and there was always something that needed to be done. I watched as people left, or died, or quietly stopped showing up, and I kept trying to fill the void.

Being part of this aging congregation felt a little like watching your elderly neighbor shovel snow. Except your whole neighborhood is elderly and the snow just keeps coming down. I felt like I was shoveling as fast as I could, making a little progress, and then someone came by with their snowplow and blocked my driveway again. I know the plow driver wasn’t trying to make things harder for me, and we had a shared mission to clear the neighborhood, but in that moment, I felt totally and utterly defeated. For my own sanity, I had to step away.

I’ve had a few months to recover, and I’m starting to feel a little more whole. For years, I’ve divided my to-do list into three categories; home, work, and church. With an entire category gone, I feel like a better teacher, a better parent, a better human. My mother is cancer-free and back in Florida, my kids are less dependent on me, and for the first time in decades, I understand what it means to have leisure time. Not just time for fun (I’ve always tried to prioritize that), but time that is unclaimed, unscheduled, and entirely my own.

There’s something beautiful… and terrifying… about this change of pace.

*****

I was eleven years old the first time a boss told me, “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean.” That boss was my grandfather and I had been taking orders and clearing tables at his hot dog stand; I had just handed him an order and I rested my elbows against the countertop. “Rookie mistake,” my mom told me later. “You’ll learn.” I washed all the windows in the restaurant that day.

As a GenX-er, I was raised in a culture that revered the story of the retiree who never took a vacation in his 20 year career. We admired the mother who never spent a day away from her children. We were trained to jump up and ‘look busy’ whenever a parent or grandparent walked into the room; heaven forbid someone find you relaxing, for they would certainly find a task for you to complete.

And while that environment has instilled in me an admirable work ethic, it has totally destroyed my relationship with rest.

I cannot rest in a dirty house.

I cannot nap in the middle of the day.

I cannot sleep past 8am.

I cannot rest when my husband is working.

I cannot sit while someone else makes a meal.

I cannot ‘just’ watch television. I need to be simultaneously making a list, or crocheting a blanket, or grading some papers.

I cannot be in the house when my cleaners are here… unless I am cleaning something bigger or dirtier (like my garage). Even admitting that I have cleaners carries a layer of internalized shame; what kind of person can’t even keep her own bathroom clean?

I could dig into the complex roots of all this. Generation. Gender. Anxiety. But regardless of the source, it is my job to un-learn the things that keep me in a constant state of feeling like I’m not doing enough.

*****

I spent my children’s childhood trying to achieve balance. I was told I could do it. I scheduled playdates and game nights and camping trips. I worked. I cooked. I cleaned. I played. I slept… fitfully.

But maybe that’s the GenX curse; to think that I have to achieve something as important as balance.

Maybe it’s not achievable. In the same way that I can’t achieve a thunderstorm or a sunny day, I can’t work hard enough to achieve balance. I can observe it. I can appreciate it. I can look for it. I can even invite it. But I can’t achieve it.

Maybe that’s the lesson I’m supposed to learn today.

*****

I’m sitting near my big, bay windows, sipping coffee and admiring the fire in the fireplace. From my seat near the window, I can see the undersides of the leaves as the wind whips through the trees.

A memory; my big, burly dad squatting down next to me, pointing out the window. I had asked, “How do you always know when a storm is coming?” “Look at the leaves,” he said. “If you can see the bottoms of the leaves, a storm is on its way.” The rain is falling gently and the sky is gray.

I’m waiting for the storm. I can feel it coming.

*****

I may have walked away from my church, but I haven’t walked away from my God. I pray and I listen and I beg, and I am seeking always, just to hear her voice.

On my bedroom wall hangs a painted quote. “Be still and know…”

Psalm 46:10. Be still and know that I am God.

I only hear her when I’m still.

*****

What if that’s the whole point? What if this phase is the balance I need? I couldn’t achieve it. I couldn’t create it. I just need to accept it and be grateful for it. I need to trust and have faith and stop trying to control things that are beyond my control.

I need to make space. To rest. To listen. Be still…

*****

The rain is heavier now. The leaves are showing their bottoms.

I exhale. I pray. For my family. For my church. For my community, my country, the state of the world. Inhale.

A storm is coming.

I will be rested and ready.

Thanks be to God.

July 17, 2025

Alone

Moms don’t get a lot of alone time. Neither do teachers. Consequently, we cherish those fleeting moments when nobody needs us.

Today, the strangest thing happened. My whole family woke up in the morning, got in their respective vehicles, and drove off to work. I was still in my pajamas, sipping coffee.

What is happening? Is this my life?

The craziest part is that this will also happen tomorrow. And next week. And the week after that.

I’m not even sure I can publish this blog post. I feel so… spoiled. Indulgent. Privileged.

Irrelevant.

God. What the heck is that? I’m having a lot of feelings about this particular transition. Of course I’m excited.

But excitement feels like the right emotion for a day or two of this type of freedom. I’m not talking about a day or two. I’m talking about… from now on. From now on, nobody needs me to drive them to school or practice. From now on, they can finance their own doordash habits and make their own plans with their friends.

I was already mourning our summertime trips to the zoo and the children’s museum. I understood that those were clearly a thing of the past. The oldest is working full time. But I didn’t think the youngest was going to find a job this summer. He hasn’t had much luck in his search. And if he did get a job, I figured it would be maybe ten hours a week. I thought we still had this one last summer for day trips and beach visits and spontaneous sushi lunches.

And then he got lucky. He landed a job. A good one. Practically full-time. Monday through Friday, 8am to 2pm. He’s really excited. And I’m really happy for him. But it happened fast. I didn’t have time to think it through.

I thought about the details. Getting his work permit signed. Setting up his bank account for direct deposit. Making sure he had the right clothes and his ID badge and the pep talk about first impressions and working hard and building your reputation.

But this morning, he drove away, with his lunch box and a smile. And I hadn’t really thought about what comes next.

The summer I imagined is gone. I’m not going to have any spontaneous sushi lunches with my kid. I’m not going to get to bring him and his friends to the beach on a random Wednesday. I’m not going to get to drag him to an obscure museum because we’re both a little bored.

That makes me sad. Like, really sad. Sadder than I expected.

My husband just called, expecting me to be joyful. I could hear the smile in his voice when he asked, “How’s your day all by yourself?”

I sobbed into the phone. “I didn’t expect to be sad, but I’m (sob) so (sob)…. saaaaad.”

“Seriously?” He asked. “I thought I was calling for good news. I thought you’d be thrilled.”

I also thought I’d be thrilled. This sadness snuck up on me.

*****

Fast forward six hours. I’m done crying, and it’s actually been a pretty good day. I read a little, ran some errands, did some chores… I went to the library and checked a couple of items off my to-do list. I talked to my sister, texted a friend, and cuddled my dog. I made plans for a walk with a friend tomorrow, and I’m feeling a little more like myself.

It’s an odd feeling, but I think that’s my mission at this phase in my life. To feel more and more like myself. I’ll always be a mom… but I’m defined by it less and less as they get older. I have to remember what ELSE I am. I’m a reader. A biker. A friend. A sister. A writer. A cook. A camper. A protester. And I can be new things, too. A friend and I want to take a pottery class. I could be a thrower (I had to google “What do you call someone who uses a pottery wheel”). Another friend offered to teach me pickleball. I just found a new podcast and I’m really loving my daily walks and crocheting beautiful things.

*****

My friends with little kids are jealous of this time I have to myself. My friends with older kids will say, “At least they’re still at home with you.” Every phase brings joys and challenges. I could miss what was and be sad. I could worry about what it will feel like when they’re gone. Or I could just be HERE. In these six sweet weeks of summer that will be unlike any other. Enjoying them when they’re around… and finding myself when they’re not.

July 2, 2025

Another Summer

I’ve been on summer vacation for two weeks, but I still can’t sleep past 6am. I try to make myself stay in bed until 6:30; in my brain, that’s a more reasonable time to be awake. It happens every year. By August, I’ll be able to sleep in until 9 on occasion- just in time to go back to a 5am alarm. I know, I know. What a problem. My husband has no sympathy. His alarm goes off at 4am year round.

I’m 46 years old. I started school at 5 years old, right? So technically, this is my 41st summer vacation. Holy cow.

Why does summer vacation still surprise me, then? Why am I always unprepared for it?

I’ve been seeing a bunch of reels about teachers on summer vacation; usually they’re funny or cute, but sometimes they try to capture the surreal, shocking shift of it. That helps me to see that I’m not alone, at least.

While I’m never emotionally prepared for summer, I’ve been doing it long enough to know that there are predictable phases. The problem is that I bounce between them like a ping-pong ball. I never know what phase I’ll be in until I’m in it.

Teachers will tell you that the end of the year is the hardest part of teaching. Behaviors are amped up, paperwork is endless, we’re frantically trying to get through the curriculum and grade all the things. We have to pack up our classrooms and take everything off the walls at the same time we’re giving finals and calling parents and writing final reports. It is a frantic push to the last day.

And then it just… stops.

It’s so abrupt.

*****

The next day, you wake up in the morning, and you’ll get one of these:

Relief. You’re at peace. The whole day is ahead of you. You can sip your coffee and sit on your deck and listen to the birds. You don’t need a plan. You can take the day as it comes, and everything about it feels beautiful.

Recovery. You’re traumatized from the weight of the last few weeks, and it catches up with you. You can’t leave your couch, and you binge watch a full series on Netflix. Dinner is takeout because you’re too tired from being tired.

Motivation. You have ALL SUMMER. You’re going to eat healthy, exercise, and lose 30 pounds. You’re going to paint all the trim and clean out the garage and organize the closets. You’re going to landscape the backyard and stain the deck and start a garden and finally write that memoir.

Guilt. Your spouse or your roommate or your parents or your kids are out there WORKING. They get up every morning and bust their butts. And you feel bad, so you become the household manager. You take over responsibilities that are shared during the school year. Pick up the prescriptions, make the meals, mow the lawn. You take it all on because, after all, you’re not working.

Work. You promised yourself you wouldn’t check your email this week. But the incredible, hard working secretary at school just needed one more piece of information. So you pull up the IEPs on your computer and you create a spreadsheet, and you try not to look at the rest of your inbox.

Leisure. You schedule a pedicure. You meet a friend for lunch. You order a cocktail at noon and you chat for two hours because you’re both teachers and you have nowhere to be. You sit in the park with your book because sunshine feels nice.

More work. There is that new curriculum for next year. You just need to preview the first unit. And if you plan the first week, the transition will be smoother. And just one online class. It’s fine. You’re not working. I mean… not really.

Panic. Where has the time gone? You haven’t done half of your projects. Did you even PLAN a vacation? You were supposed to do all those day trips. You were supposed to visit family. You were supposed to paint the trim.

Frantic Fun. You look at the days that are left. You fill the calendar with beach days, amusement parks, and road trips. You should know yourself better than to think those things could have been spontaneous. WE ARE GOING TO HAVE FUN THIS SUMMER IF IT KILLS US!

Satisfaction. You had a good day. You did something fun. You moved your body. You accomplished a task. You talked to a friend. What more can you ask for?

*****

Each day is a surprise. For me, Monday was already frantic fun. We were at Six Flags, which is only enjoyable in theory or with a good friend. Thankfully, I was there with my bestie and her kids. Yesterday, I was in guilt mode. When my husband got home from work, I proudly presented him with a list of all I had accomplished, and he looked at me like I was insane. I’m hoping today is something a little less frenetic, but I’ve been awake for an hour and a half, and I’m still not sure where the day is going to go.

Over my 41 summer vacations, I have learned one lesson. I will ALWAYS get to the end of it and wonder where the time went. Over the past decade, the method has evolved, but I know I need to document the summer. I’ve kept a calendar so we could look back on all we did. I’ve kept a photo journal, so I can see all of the memories together. I’ve kept an actual journal, so I can reflect and revisit. But it is essential for me to keep a record. When the summer ends, instead of feeling regret or sadness or disappointment, I take a moment and look back.

As I flip through the journal or scroll through the photos, I cannot help but feel blessed. Camping trips and herb gardens. Boating and grilling and painting. Learning and working and sweating and swimming. Forty-one beautiful summers.

How did I get so lucky?

May 25, 2024

Student Loans

Okay, I get it. If you paid back all your student loans, it feels kinda crappy that other people got theirs ‘forgiven’. I put that in quotes because the word forgiven doesn’t quite capture what happened to me.

I was recently chatting with a friend who loves me. I told her I was relieved that, after four appeals, my student loan ‘forgiveness’ was finally approved. I could tell by the look on her face that she was trying to be happy for me. But she also felt a little jilted. She had paid back all of her student loans. Financially, we were in similar situations. We’d both been teaching for about 20 years. And we had both worked hard to pay off our loans.

I’m not a finance person. And I was absolutely clueless at the age of 18 or 22 when I took out my school loans. So, I’m not sure exactly how my friend and I wound up in such different situations, but this is what I explained to her.

I took out $37,000 in loans for my graduate and my undergraduate degrees, in total. (These poor kids today need to pay that much in a year. At least.)

As a young person, I struggled to make my payments. I called the loan company for advice and suggestions. I was pointed toward deferments and consolidation loans without fully understanding what I was agreeing to. I mistakenly trusted their advice, and lowered my payments for a time, to something more manageable.

Over the past 20 years, I have paid back more than $72,000 in student loans. I have paid my loans back twice over. And at the time of my loan forgiveness in March, I still owed $34,488.

Listen, I understand that I was an idiot. And that’s probably why more people aren’t talking about this. Those of us who fell for this scheme feel stupid. We’re embarrassed to admit our mistake. But I keep seeing snarky memes and nasty posts. “You take out the loan. You pay it back.” That kind of thing.

And after our conversation, my friend looked at me and asked, “Why aren’t more people talking about THAT? It’s not the loan that’s being forgiven. It’s the interest. That’s a totally different thing.”

And she’s right. I think more people should be talking about it. So I am. I’m trying to let go of the embarrassment so that we can all focus our anger in the right place. Don’t be mad at the people who fell for it. Be angry with the people who set up a system designed to take advantage of young, gullible kids. Be angry with the lenders who deliberately mislead consumers into poor financial choices. Be angry with the soaring, exorbitant costs of college. Because these memes and arguments about loan forgiveness are designed to distract us. They are designed to pit us against each other, so our bickering keeps us too busy to address the real problems.

Don’t fall for it.

July 27, 2023

Beach Day

I took the kids to the beach yesterday. We really needed to get out; with my knee surgery last week and all the rainy weather, it feels like this summer has been mostly spent sitting in the air conditioning or wandering around WalMart. Not exactly stuff to write home about.

So the knee is getting stronger, and I asked around to find the beach with the least amount of walking involved. My facebook friends did not disappoint. We found a great spot, with a parking lot right next to the sand. It was perfect.

Going to the beach is one of those things that we’ve been doing since the kids were small. I have tons of photos of sand castle building and ice-cream eating and wave jumping. When you’ve been doing a thing for so long, it’s only natural to make comparisons.

Some things remain the same, and some things are different now.

*****

Same: They wake up easily, excited for a day at the beach.

Different: They shower and find their bathing suits and grab a towel… without any help from me.

—–

Same: I pack sandwiches and snacks in a cooler bag.

Different: They load up the car with chairs and umbrellas and bags.

—–

Same: We stop at Dunkin Donuts and get munchkins and an iced coffee for me…

Different: … and they get iced coffees, too.

—–

Same: We crank the music loud and sing along as we drive down the highway.

Different: They control the playlist, and I admire their taste in music.

—–

Same: The drive is longer than expected.

Different: Nobody asks Are we there yet?

—–

Same: We pull into the parking lot and someone announces It smells like the ocean!

Different: A competent teen walks across the lot and slides in my credit card at the paystation.

—–

Same: There are umbrellas and chairs and coolers and boogie boards to unload…

Different: … but the sand toys are conspicuously absent.

—–

Same: I throw my cooler bag over my shoulder and reach for my beach chair…

Different: … but the boys have grabbed everything else, and I walk toward the sand feeling strangely unencumbered.

—–

Same: We forgot to bring the stupid spiral attachment for the bottom of the umbrella.

Different: A different competent teen grabs a rock and hammers it securely into the sand.

—–

Same: The kids head for the water, before I’ve even taken my shoes off.

Different: I watch them, without rushing, and settle into my chair.

—–

Same: They spend hours jumping waves, splashing and giggling in the ocean.

Different: I lounge in my chair, sipping lemonade, reading my book, and watching them play.

—–

Same: I count heads in the water.

Different: I also read my book, close my eyes, and relax, (mostly) unafraid that someone will drown.

—–

Same: I swim with them, once I’m hot enough. We splash and joke and they implore Mom! Mom! Watch this!

Different: When I’ve had enough salt water, I splash them one last time and begin to swim back toward the sand. No one begs me to stay.

—–

Same: They come out of the water when they’re hungry.

Different: They eat everything I’ve packed, and nobody drops food in the sand.

—–

Same: I mention they’re looking a little pink.

Different: The youngest doesn’t argue. He replies, “Crap. Thanks. Will you pass me the sunscreen?” and asks his brother to spray him.

—–

Same: I’m ready for a nap and they’re ready to go back in the water.

Different: I lay on the sand and they go back in the water.

—–

Same: The beach begins to empty. They still splash in the waves.

Different: I’m content to stay. We have no timeline; no naps, no meal schedule or bathtime worries. We’ll be done when we’re done and eat when we’re hungry and sleep when we’re tired.

—–

Same: There’s a mixture of contentment and vague disappointment as we pack up.

Different: They shake the sand of their towels and pack up the chairs and umbrella. They bear the burden of lugging it all back to the truck. I carry my bag and walk slowly behind them, watching their broad, bare shoulders and wondering where my babies went.

—–

Same: We drink from lukewarm water bottles and relish in the air conditioning.

Same: They fall asleep on the way home; peaceful, content, exhausted.

Same: I sneak glances at them, overwhelmed with love and gratitude and joy.

Different: I want to end there. On that beautiful, happy, note. But that is not truth, and I want to be truthful. The truth is that I am filled with a deep, deep sadness. Not grief, but impending grief. I know that these days are nearly over. I used to take four of them to the beach. Now we’re down to just two. I used to think these summers would be endless, and now I’m grasping for just one more.

I know that it’s coming. I know that they’re leaving. I know I can’t stop it. What I don’t know is what my summers will look like when they’re gone.

The truth is that I’m sitting here in my office, with tears rolling down my cheeks as I type, so desperately sad that we’re running out of time.

May 20, 2023

Terrible Students

I spend my days working with dyslexic middle schoolers. When I started in this position, nearly ten years ago, my students would come to me with questions and challenges. They could identify what was hard for them and they were eager to get help. I loop with the same small group of students from sixth to seventh to eighth grade, with a few exceptions. By the end of three years together, this group starts to feel like a little family. I become their ‘school mom,’ sometimes nagging them to complete their work, often providing encouragement and support, and always advocating for them in their classrooms. We have a lot of laughs, and we work through some hard things, and it is incredibly rewarding to see how much they grow and change over three years. Most of the time, I love my job.

I spend my evenings with teen boys, too. One has ADHD and the other has mild autism. I’ve often told my friends that my hardest years of teaching are the years when my children at home are in the same age range as my students at school. When you teach middle school and go home to pre-schoolers, it’s a different kind of hard. When you teach middle school and go home to middle schoolers, it’s the same kind of hard ALL day long. That’s exhausting.

But yesterday was pretty great. My students were focused, well-behaved, and productive. My youngest son brought up his science grade from a D to an A. He talked with me about an essay and worked on his homework without me nagging him about it. My oldest son made up three quizzes he missed while attending his grandfather’s funeral last week. I was feeling pretty good.

And then today happened.

My oldest son’s guidance counselor reached out. He wants to meet because my son’s grades are so poor. Just when I thought things were looking up.

My youngest son’s grades got updated. Sure… he’s got an A in science… but he’s got an F in math and a D in history.

I thought I had a good lesson for my 8th graders today. But they came in for their first period class half asleep, and it was like pulling teeth to get them to make eye contact, let alone answer questions. I wanted them to read 9 pages of a book, and you would think I asked them to donate a kidney. It was torture.

I had a fun lesson planned for my 7th graders, but they spent the whole class making faces at each other and laughing at inside jokes and followed exactly ZERO of the classroom instructions.

My sixth graders were working on something I thought we’d mastered, and they were making a ton of errors. When I tried to help them correct their mistakes, they responded with eye-rolling and snark and deep sighs.

*****

I’ve been talking to colleagues and friends, and we’re all frustrated. We know there’s a problem, but we can’t figure out the cause or the solution.

Was it COVID? Did they miss out on some developmental growth that’s still having an impact?

Is it technology? Are they too accustomed to quick answers and immediate gratification?

Is it attentional? Are they so used to constant entertainment that they can’t focus on text or classroom discussion?

Maybe it’s that parenting styles have changed. Are we so focused on supporting kids that they aren’t able to build resilience?

Are kids just too busy? Overscheduled with sports and music lessons and tutoring and after school jobs?

Is homework outdated? Does it serve a purpose? Is asking kids to work at home akin to asking employees to work after hours?

Or maybe we’re not teaching them to set priorities and manage their time and find balance in their lives.

It could be any or all of those things. Teachers blame it on parents. Parents blame it on teachers. And being both a parent and a teacher, I don’t think I can point a finger at all. My students are terrible students. My CHILDREN are terrible students. And despite my best efforts in both arenas, I feel pretty helpless because I can’t seem to find ANYTHING that makes it better.

*****

Imagine a scenario.

Bobby is a seventh grade student who struggles with dyslexia. Reading is really hard for him. Bobby is able to move slowly through class assignments, but rarely completes any work outside of class. Bobby also has ADHD, which makes his phone particularly addictive to him. He frequently has to be reminded to take off his hood, put away his earbuds, and turn off his phone.

Bobby’s teachers are concerned. They work overtime to ensure that all of the text he encounters is available in audio form. If the audio is not readily available, the teacher creates it. Assignments are modified to limit text, and Bobby has a special education teacher who supports him in class and during his study hall. She creates a list of missing assignments and strategizes with him about how to tackle the work. All of his teachers offer to meet with him after school. Some offer extensions so that he has additional time to complete overdue assignments. Bobby’s teachers want to take his phone during class so that he isn’t distracted by the technology. School administration tells them they’re not allowed to confiscate the students’ (expensive) personal property.

Bobby’s parents realize that he is not doing well in school. They log into the classroom portal. They make a list of the missing assignments. They set up a quiet study space and check in with the child each night. They try to provide incentives: rewards for good grades. Believing that they’re doing what’s right (and what’s expected of ‘good parents’), they set up a meeting with school staff to advocate for Bobby.The team comes up with a plan. The teacher will email weekly. The teacher will modify homework. The teacher will stay after school with the student. The teacher will let the student re-take tests. The teacher will provide extra credit opportunities. (Even though this creates extra work for teachers, nearly all of us are willing to do it if it helps our students to be successful.)

But the problem comes when the plan is NOT successful. Bobby’s behavior remains consistent. The only thing that has changed is the atmosphere, both at school and at home. Bobby’s teachers are frustrated that their efforts haven’t been successful. They begin to feel helpless, because they don’t know what else they can do to improve the situation. At home, Bobby’s parents are tracking his work. They see missing assignments and ask about them. Bobby shrugs. “I don’t know what that is.” “I swear I turned that in. She just hasn’t graded it yet.” “That assignment isn’t due until next week.” Parents attempt to get clarification by scrolling through Google classroom, emailing the teacher, or checking with other parents. Hours are consumed. There is arguing and misery and, ultimately, the parents don’t have enough knowledge about what happened in class to guide the student to make better choices.

Both the parents and the teachers feel that they are working hard, to no avail. They begin to blame one another. In Bobby’s case, his parents may sue the district for an expensive outplacement because the district has failed to educate their child. Bobby’s teachers may start grading more leniently, ensuring that Bobby gets at least a ‘C,’ to avoid confrontation with the parents. Everyone involved becomes exhausted and angry.

Everyone except Bobby.

*****

Which leads me to a thought.

In education over the past few years, we’ve moved away from concrete consequences. And I understand why. I really do. I also used to believe it was the best thing for our students. We should provide incentives for them instead of punishments. We should adopt restorative practices and focus on relationship building.

Yes. And.

I had a few students fail classes last term. These were NOT students who fell through the cracks. These were students who were given every opportunity to succeed. After school extra help. Modified assignments. Parent conferences. Tracking sheets. Support classes. Reference sheets. Study groups. And after all of that, a team of teachers got together and determined that we could not, in good conscience, give these students passing grades.

When teachers allow a failing grade to stand, we haven’t done it lightly. We gave those Fs thoughtfully. Regretfully. With lots of conversations with family and colleagues and students.

And then, we were brought in for a discussion with our administration. The message delivered was, “Let’s think outside the box to figure out how to help these kids succeed.” The message received was, “Don’t allow students to fail. It looks bad.” I felt insulted. Angry. Resentful.

It felt as if we were being told that the students didn’t have any responsibility for their own learning.

*****

I have a junior in high school. And I think he needs to fail algebra (and maybe history). That probably sounds harsh, but it’s a natural consequence.

Imposed consequences don’t work for this kid. I’ve taken away his phone. Grounded him. Taken away his keys. Taken away his privileges. And all of that just means that he sits in his bedroom with his sketchbook. He becomes antisocial and depressed but it doesn’t MOTIVATE him to complete his history project or study algebra.

Last term, I thought, “He can’t take his mommy to college with him. He needs to develop self-monitoring skills and internal motivation.” I decided to let him fail.

Which he did. But you know what? It didn’t change anything. He swore up and down he’d bring up his grades for last term. He hasn’t.

And I honestly believe that the only thing that will push him to change is the meaningful, natural consequence of having to repeat the class.

*****

What we have to remember is that we’re all on the same team. We all want these kids to succeed. We want them to develop academic skills and motivation and resilience. But they won’t be able to do that if the adults in their lives can’t get on the same page. We all need to provide encouragement AND hold them accountable. We all need to be consistent in our messaging and provide consequences when they’re needed. We all need to be open to listening and working together.

I think I’m writing this post for myself more than anything else. I look around at other families and it feels like they’ve got it all together. I keep trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong. But I also know I’m not entirely alone. I’ve been in many parent teacher conferences with frustrated moms who can’t hold back their tears. They look at me helplessly and ask, “What can I DO?”

I don’t have the answer. But I can relate. And I can share some things that I’ve tried in my own home. Here’s the list.

Things that (sometimes) worked for my daughter with trauma and anxiety:

Let her work in her room.
Give her lots of space.
Edit essays with her once they’re done.
Help her find the right word. For as long as it takes.
Provide lots of encouragement and reassurance.
Let her listen to music.
NEVER email the teacher. For the love of God. How embarrassing.

Things that (sometimes) work for my son with ADHD:

Make him work anywhere BUT his room.
Sit in the room with him. Don’t help unless he asks. But be there.
Provide good snacks.
White noise helps. Avoid music.
Email the teacher. Often.
Physically take the phone. It can’t even be near him.

Things that (sometimes) work for my child with autism:

Quiet. He needs quiet.
Music. He can’t work without music.
Sit with him. Help.
For God’s sake, leave him ALONE to work.
Email the teacher.
Let him email the teacher. He’s in HIGH SCHOOL, for God’s sake.

As you can see, I don’t have any answers. But I freaking love these kids. All of them. The ones at home and the ones and school. So I’m not giving up. And I’m open to suggestions.

March 25, 2023

Alone

I’m sitting on the couch, with what is possibly the last fire of the season crackling in the fireplace. Under the Bridge filters through the bathroom door while my son takes a shower. At least he’s got good taste in music. Who doesn’t like the Red Hot Chili Peppers?

Lee is getting ready to go out for the day. He takes his showers in the dark with loud music playing. He’s never explicitly explained it, but I know that it’s common for trans people to come up with creative ways to make it through the triggering daily routine of washing a dysphoric body.

Jack and Cal are at work. In just a few minutes, everyone will be gone, and I’ll have the house to myself.

I’ve got my crochet project next to me, along with my brand-new reading glasses. Yup. Reading glasses. I’m a little freaked out by that, but they’re pretty helpful. And kinda cute, honestly. I’m settled in with my coffee and my computer and I’ve got a vague plan for the day.

And then Jack’s van pulls in the driveway. What I thought would be a full day at work only took him a few hours. It’s not even 10am. He walks in the door. Relieved. Excited. Happy to be home. I feel horrible because I’m disappointed.

From this angle on the couch, I can see a potato chip under the coffee table. Gross. I’ll have to remember to pick that up.

The vibe of this day has shifted, and it feels unfair. I feel antsy. Itchy.

He won’t be hurt or offended or upset if I do exactly what I planned to do today. So why do I feel the need to change things because I’m not alone?

I was looking forward to a spinach and mushroom omelet for brunch. It’s one of my favorites; something only I enjoy. And now I’ll feel obligated to also make a fried egg and toast for my husband, because I’m cooking anyway.

I was hoping to sit in front of the fire and start my online class. But he’ll want to watch TV. Or sit next to me on his phone, which irrationally makes me seethe.

I wanted to change the sheets. But if he’s sitting and doing nothing while I do chores that he’s equally responsible for, I bubble with resentment.

He just got a new amplifier. Literally. FedEx just delivered it, and he set it up in the room right next to me. Of course he wants to try it out. Who wouldn’t? But the toddler in my brain screams, “I was here first” and “I want QUIET!” He’s not doing anything wrong. There’s no place else for him to go. And he’s excited. I don’t want to crush that. So I move. Now I’m in my office, away from the fireplace, but with a few candles lit and white noise playing on the alexa to try to recreate the quiet I had half an hour ago.

It’s not working. The guitar amp fills the house with chords and rhythms; starts of songs that never finish as he tests out the sound. Wagon Wheel. Toes. Starting Over. Against the Law. I can’t focus.

I love him. I really do. Last week, we got dressed up and went to a nice restaurant and laughed through a lovely dinner. The week before, we spent Saturday in the garage, reupholstering the boat seats. We each had our own staple remover and we sang along to songs on the radio. I’d make sure the new covers were lined up just right and he’d staple and reassure me a thousand times that he was being careful and I didn’t have to keep saying it. Together, we laugh like crazy and play a mean game of scrabble and cuddle on the couch.

And yet.

I crave time ALONE.

I don’t think that’s crazy or unusual. I know lots of friends who feel the same way. Sure, I could leave. I could go sit in the library or a coffee shop.

But I just want to be in my pajamas, alone on my couch, eating food that I like and doing things that I love without having to be considerate of anyone else at all.

I just want permission to be totally selfish for a few hours.

I think back to when I lived alone. I would spend hours sitting on my front porch, writing and sipping coffee and watching the world go by. When I got hungry, I would make whatever I wanted to eat. Apple crisp for breakfast? Why not? I would spend whole days scrubbing my apartment, contentedly, because I knew it was my mess and it felt satisfying to clean it. And I only had to do it once or twice a month. If I wanted to talk to someone, I’d pick up the phone. If I wanted music, I would turn on whatever I was in the mood for, and nobody was there to comment on my musical taste or the volume of the radio. If I wanted quiet, I sat in silence, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I didn’t feel obligated to wait for someone else to watch my favorite show. I could be in the flow of writing for hours, without anyone playing inescapable, distracting music.

I have a sister who just recently found herself living alone for the first time. She’s struggling a little with it. I try to be supportive, but deep down, I can’t help but be a little jealous.

I know the grass is always greener. And I try to remember that it’s all about balance. Because when I did live alone, it was sometimes awful, too.

Cooking for one was boring and eating alone was a little sad. I had to lift all the heavy stuff and pay for someone to fix the brakes on my car and call the oil company when my furnace broke. The projects were mine alone, and choosing the music is less satisfying than having someone to sing along with. There was nobody to play scrabble with and nobody to tease me about my inability to sit and watch a movie all the way through. There was no one to cuddle on the couch. There was no spontaneous guitar from the next room. The silence was sometimes deafening.

*****

He’s playing In Color. I love this song. I love his voice. I take a moment to breathe. And count my blessings. My stomach rumbles. It’s time to go make that spinach and mushroom omelet. And a fried egg.

March 12, 2023

Dry March

I gave up alcohol for Lent. It was easy at first. I made a strawberry balsamic shrub and added it to to lemon water in a martini glass. I made a vanilla honey syrup and mixed it with homemade blackberry sage reduction. I squeezed grapefruit juice into coconut water and sipped it on the rocks with a slice of lime. I hosted two parties that way and didn’t miss the buzz at all.

But by the time the third Friday afternoon rolled around, I really wanted to sit at a bar and sip a cocktail with my husband. Instead, I snuggled up to him on the couch with chamomile tea. Saturday night was the progressive supper at church, and I sipped my lemon water from a wine glass. And here we are, on Sunday evening. I went to the local liquor store to buy a sampling of NA wines to try to find one that doesn’t taste like Welch’s white grape juice.

Success. For now. There’s ice rattling in my fake Sauvignon Blanc as I type this.

*****

I’ve always been mindful of the Lenten season. As a kid, I’d give up cookies or candy. As a teenager, I’d abstain from a certain television show or favorite food. But at some point in my early adulthood I began to take on a commitment instead of giving something up. I would read a daily devotional. Keep a faith journal. Donate one item every day.

But this year, I felt pulled back to that old tradition. A sacrifice of some sort. But not abstinence for the sake of abstinence.

I wanted to make a sacrifice that would, in some small way, force me to be better. More present. More productive. More alert. More aware.

*****

Anyone who lives in New England knows that March is gross. It’s when we battle the last of the winter weather and when our seasonal doldrums are at their peak. We’re stir-crazy and cold and tired of winter coats.

Anyone who teaches in a public school knows that March is the absolute worst. The kids are ALSO stir-crazy and cold and tired of telling their parents that they don’t need a coat. The meetings are piling up and the term is finishing and state tests are looming. There’s no break in sight and everyone’s nose is running.

Every March, I consider alternate career options. I’ve been doing this teaching gig long enough to recognize the March job hunt as a passing phase. I’ll be fine by April.

But it’s convenient that March coincides with Lent. It gives me a little extra motivation to pull myself out of my annual funk. I get introspective. As I was recently starting a new journal, I thought about the things I do that make me, well… better. I put them into categories. Connect. Move. Explore. Create.

Each night, I jot down a note about those goals. Who did I connect with? How did I move my body? What new place or idea did I explore? Did I create a meal or music or a blanket?

And with a little less alcohol in my life, there’s a little more of all those things. More sitting on my son’s bed and hearing about his day. More simmering fruit to create homemade syrups. More crocheting and more reading and more walks and more phone calls.

And more blogging. I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long. It’s good to be back.