Category: Reflections

I’m working on trying to turn these blogs into something cohesive… maybe even publishable.  So I’m looking back and re-reading my old posts. 

It’s surreal to go back in time like that.  To crawl back into my own head and remember what it was like to be me nearly a decade ago.  

I wrote about giving Cam a piggy back ride.  When I read it, it brought tears to my eyes.  Even then, I was lamenting that he was growing up so fast, and it might have been the last time I hoisted him onto my back.  Now, he’s 6’2” and just months from becoming a legal adult.  If he jumped on my back, I’d wind up in traction.  As I read,  I couldn’t help but marvel at how much (and how little) has changed.  There’s another blog where I describe the miserable, whiny mess he becomes when I finally make him do his homework.  That particular quality has remained steadfast.  🙂

*****

Reading back over these old posts is a little like looking into a funhouse mirror. Who wrote these things?  Me, but not me.  Me with a little less life under my belt.  Me with a little more anxiety and a little less chill.  Me with a little more energy and a little less confidence. Me, looking for connection and validation and commiseration.

And I suppose that much is still true.  When I write, I’m looking for connection.  I’m packaging  a portion of my life and presenting it to the world with a note on the wrapper… “You, too?”  A message in a bottle, eagerly awaiting a response from the unknown.  A fervent prayer.  Please tell me I’m not alone. 

And you answer!  It’s incredible.  Some with a response to the post.  Some with a phone call or a text.  Some with a heart emoji or a like.  Some with something deeper.  A grasped hand in the hallway at work.  Thank you for sharing.  Something intentional.  I printed it and left it in the staff room.  I thought people should see it.  Something heartfelt.  It’s like you’re in my head.  So I keep writing.  

*****

I imagine my future self.  I’m retired, sitting by a lake somewhere.  It’s early morning, and I’m on the deck with my coffee and my laptop.  The font is a little larger, and my thoughts are a little slower.  Maybe the grandkids are on their way to visit.  Maybe Jack is making breakfast.  

And maybe I’m reading this post.  Looking back on the version of myself that could barely tolerate the thought of an empty nest.  Reading my own thoughts, and thinking, “Oh, how sweet and… clueless… she is.” Recognizing myself, but seeing, too, how much I’ve grown.  I love the idea that there could be that much life ahead of me.  That I still have so much to learn.  And I love that my writing gives me a chance to step back and get a big-picture look at it all.  

I had big plans to start a new habit today.  Not a big deal, but a goal nonetheless.  I planned to start walking the dog instead of simply letting her out into the yard. After all, I’m on summer vacation, and we could both use the exercise.  Not a huge commitment; just a ten minute walk each morning.  

I woke up slowly, and rolled over in bed, vaguely wondering about the time.  I had let the dog out at 4am (she’s an old girl with a bladder tumor).  My husband had left for work around 5, and I kissed him goodbye and happily rolled over and went back to sleep.  So it must be at least 6.  Maybe 6:30?  I reached for my phone and lifted it three inches from my face (that’s as far as I can see without my glasses).  6:54.  Not bad!  It usually takes a few days for my body to realize that I don’t have to wake up at 5, so this was a win. 

I slid my glasses on and shuffled to the bathroom, already trying to hype myself up for a walk. And I heard the sound of the rain through the open window.  A pretty steady downpour was already making new plans for me.  I brushed my teeth, threw in a load of laundry, unloaded the dishwasher… and lay back down on the bed to answer a text from my son.  I was mentally readjusting my plans for the morning.  Some writing.  The grocery store.  A little light cleaning.  A mid-morning nail appointment.  

And then the cat jumped onto my bed. This cat is barely more than a kitten, and relatively new to us.  She is an endless source of entertainment; she prefers to nap ON people, and she doesn’t care what you’re doing.  Reading a book?  That’s fine.  She’ll lay right in your lap, with her rear end positioned so you can’t turn the pages.  Watching TV?  No worries.  She has a way of sitting right on your chest, with her head on your neck and her tail directly in your line of vision. Last night, there was an odd rustling, rattling noise in the bedroom.  I looked up to see her perched on TOP of the bedroom door.  She had climbed up the bathrobe that hangs on a hook on the back of the door, and looked pretty proud of herself as she balanced at the top, contemplating her options for getting back down.  

So I was unsurprised when she stepped right between my face and the phone, settling into a furry ball on my torso.  She wiggled and repositioned, insisting on neck scratches AND belly rubs at the same time.  Her ferocious purring was a sign of her gratitude.  And for a moment, I stopped running through my plans.  I felt the rumble of her purring and the warmth of her body and the softness of her fur.  I noticed the sound of the rain hitting the leaves outside and paid attention to the breeze from the open window.  I swear, I could feel my blood pressure drop.  I focused on my breathing and reminded myself to just BE in the moment.  

It only lasted a few minutes, but it was divine.  It reset my day.  It took my focus away from goals and shifted it to gratitude.  It moved my mindset from productivity to peace.  And it gave me a glimpse of what I want my summer to feel like.  I’ll let you know how long it lasts.  

I read a book recently, full of the most beautiful prose.  Phrases that stuck in my brain, even after the page turn.  I actually pulled out a pencil and underlined the words, because I wanted to be able to go back and re-read the beautiful cadences.  I read a LOT, and I can’t remember ever feeling like that about a book.  Typically, I find flowery descriptions to be distracting in text; I’m not particularly interested in the exact color of blue in the protagonist’s dress.  But this book used interesting metaphors and alliteration to describe actions and thoughts instead of objects.  I found it refreshing and inspiring.  

It made me think about my own writing.  What inspires me to write?  What keeps me coming back? Why has it been so hard lately?  So many of my own experiences are intertwined with my children and my students; it’s hard to find the line where the story stops being mine and starts being theirs. When I try to dig into these experiences, I find myself deleting paragraphs, censoring my thoughts, or abandoning the endeavor entirely, because I don’t want to violate a sacred sort of trust. My writing has always been intensely personal; it requires a level of vulnerability that feels untenable at the moment. 

But where does that leave me?  What else do I know but children? 

Interestingly, that seems to be the essential question for me right now. Not just in my writing, but in my life.  Certainly, there is more to my life than just parenting and teaching.  I am incredibly grateful that my days are full of friends and family, a meaningful career, and hobbies that keep me active and engaged. 

But the diary of a contented, middle-aged life doesn’t pack the kind of punch that will capture a reader.  My morning coffee, my lesson planning, and my inner musings don’t quite provide the same inspiration for reflection as a passionate plea for trans rights or a diatribe about the failings of the foster care system.   

And yet.  

And yet, I need to put words to the page to feel like a whole human. As much as the writing is hard, I can’t help but acknowledge that it is the writing that will pull me through this transition.  It always has.  I have been a writer through every wild and wonderful phase of my life.  I can look back to my angsty teenage journals and my anxious-new-mother notebooks and ten years’ of blogs about raising children and growing into an adult.  Sometimes I barely recognize myself, but I’m always in there somewhere.  Some version of me reaches out from the page, trying to write her next chapter. 

I’m not sure if it’s the weather, or finally getting my hormones balanced, or just the approaching end of the school year, but something has shifted lately, in a positive way.  I’m feeling more grounded, ready for growth, eager.  I’m confident that I have what I need to write myself through to whatever comes next. 

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. 

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. 

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.  

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? 

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.