Climb In

My students are wilting.

They are sitting at their desks, trying to follow as I connect the theme of To Kill a Mockingbird to their own lives.

Today it is so hot in my classroom that, even with every window open, there is no room for breath. My fourth block is registered to capacity. I have 30 sophomore students sitting with the backs of their legs sweat-glued to their chairs.

We decide to push desks out of the way and gather on the tile in an effort to get some relief from the heat. It feels good to shape ourselves in a circle and discuss The Scottsboro Boys as we absorb the cold of the floor.

They can't wait for the summer.
I can't either.

Although I find great comfort, reward and challenge in my career, I miss being home with my children. Being a working mother-a high school English teacher- is a choice that I made when I left my original career in marketing and returned to school for my Master's degree in education. I chose a career that afforded me the ability to be both things. I work while my children are at school. I work really, really hard. And teaching allows me to share with my children the same days off. The same vacations. To be both a stay at home and working mother. But it also lands me evenings full of essays to correct. Parents to contact. Children to worry about. Because this year, this semester, in addition to my two children, I have 80 more. 80 15-18 year olds.

There are many times when I do miss being home full-time. I miss those years after Zoe was born that I stayed home with my babies. I miss lazy mornings and sprinkler-running. Crafts on the lawn. Early afternoon baths for the kiddos because there was nothing else to do. Trips to the library. Weekday outings to pick blueberries and strawberries. To cut flowers and feed goats. I do those things now, still, but they are scheduled. They do not necessarily happen without me planning.

Blogs and writing on the topic of mothering are hot button issues, so I will put forth this universal disclaimer: Just because it works for me does not mean that it works for everyone. You are a good mom whether you choose to enrich your children with sports or music. With organic or Doritos. With no activities at all. Whether you are Gay. Straight. Married. Single. If you work to be present for your children- if their very happiness runs through your heart like a constant pulse, a need, a drive- then you are a good mom.

Because, when you become a mother, it stops being about you.

So, it doesn't matter that our morning schedule has made me tired this year. I pack lunches the night before. Fill the coffee pot. Check and re-check backpacks, permission slips and teacher notes. I write checks for field trips and make sure library books are packed ahead of time for the night during the week-day that the children are not with me. When my alarm rings at 5AM, I sleepwalk to the shower.  I load the kids in the car by 6:45 to drop them, one at a time, before I fly to make it to my own classroom by the bell. I do the reverse pick up almost every afternoon. And then, of course, it is homework and dinner. Baths and reading. I work to make sure we get outside. That I toss the football with Zach or gather the kids for a bike ride or a run or a water gun fight.

There is family time.
I make sure the children have space for themselves.
I make sure there is quiet and noise.
I make sure that if Zachary or Zoe is feeling sadness about the divorce or a move or a school change, that we talk about it. And that talking about it is often gut churning. 

Just tonight, Zoe asked (as if it were the first time and not many months later), what divorce means. As I help her understand what to tell her friends in school, as she shares with Zachary and I her worries and fears, as she cries and confesses that she thought that Daddy's new house meant that she was being taken away and would never again see me, as she wonders why the rules are so different in two households, I feel inadequate and less-than. 

I worry that my love is not enough. 
That my house doesn't have fast toys. 
That I am not as fun or cool. 
That my home is not as glamorous. 

Sometimes, like tonight, I cry when I talk to them.

The children ask questions.
And the questions can be asked, as Zoe demonstrated this evening, just moments from a bedtime that I am counting on to give me an hour or so of quiet.

And I can't explain everything because they are children. I can't explain the nuances of a relationship because they are 4 and 7. And so, I hold them. I work and work and cuddle them and help them to share what is on their hearts. I give life to their words and emotions. The kids are talking and being held the way that they need to be.

That is what is real.
That is what it is like, sometimes, to walk this road.
And, after, I sit with my head in my hands tired and emotionally wrung to my core.
But the entire time, there are hands to hold. 
Two very beautiful. Very innocent. Hands to hold.

It has been exhausting, but, in general, it has been rewarding.
Strengthening. 
As my mother says, it is possible to be afraid and brave at the same time.

Carol Burnett once described what labor pains feel like by saying, “Take your bottom lip and pull it over your head.”

You want to know what Divorce feels like? Take your top lip and pull it down over your toes. And do that while naked. In the middle of an earthquake taking place on the precipice of an erupting volcano with lava chasing your very heart while holding your breath in the face of being called every name you can imagine in front of everyone whom you value most. Don't sleep. Don’t eat. Worry all of the time. Stuff tears while in a staff meeting. Let them run down your cheeks as you drive in the car to pick up the children. Apply a new face of make-up before you kiss them hello.

You want to know what Divorce feels like?

Take your world, everything you had planned, everything you value, everything that encompasses your identity and pride and vulnerability—Your very being—and explode it in one seismic bang.

Blow it up in one gigantic earth shattering mother-of-all-fireclouds.

Divorce. Sucks.

In the past year I have acquired scars I never knew I would earn.
I have lived through nights where I felt as if someone had surgically attached ice-cubes to my lungs.

In the past year, I have felt afraid.
Exposed.

Shaken.

I spent hours counting every dime. Trying to figure out how to buy groceries or new clothes for the children. I created intricate color coded spreadsheets estimating budget and timing and cash-flow. I scheduled doctors appointments and coordinated drop offs and pick ups. 

And then, like the roller coaster I described in my most recent post, it all ends.
And I stand in the rubble.
Bleeding. Hemorrhaging, maybe.
I blink in the settling dust.
And I think: I am alive.

I lived.
I survived.

And, on the other side, there is laughter.
Nights like tonight are more and more rare.

They are smiling. I am smiling
There is light and love.
There is music and song.
There is play and relief and unconditional communication and support.

So, today, as I spoke to my fourth block class about a novel written many decades ago, I felt thankful for the heat. For the cool of the floor. For my wilting students.

I felt grateful that I was once again strong and solid enough to lecture about the innocence of Harper Lee's protagonist as she watches someone she loves take a stand for something in which they believe.

For, as Atticus Finch explains to his daughter so eloquently in chapter 3, "if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you'll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view […] until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

Climb in.

Mass Measure

I’m afraid of heights, but I love roller-coasters.

The rush of the drop. The sail into the return space.

The click-click-knowing the adventure is done and I’ve taken a chance.

The ride is scary, but the arrival—-with the sudden absence of wind blowing and screaming and plummets and rises-—the arrival at the end, is what the roller coaster is all about.

I never scream on roller coasters. I stuff the sound in and hold tight to the rail. I feel embarrassed to let the noise out. What will those around me think?

Those around me. The ones I worry about? They are too busy carrying on with their hands in the air. 

All the same, I stay silent. 

Exhilarated. 

Quiet. processing.

Over a year ago, I write a blog about wanting to ride in a convertible. Feeling comfort in a black interior. A thrill as the roof rolls back. A freedom in my hair blowing everywhere. It is that freedom in looking outward that I crave. The feeling of flying yet being in control. I speak of destination. I feel sure that I know where I am going.

In April of 2014, I take a trip with my girlfriends. I cry hard on the return flight and clutch the hand of my best friend as she hands me tissue after tissue. I sob as she encourages me to let it out. To not mask what I am feeling. I hold her hand silently and pray as we fly. I look out the window to the clouds below and remember what it was like to be a child with the confidence that walking on those clouds was possible. 

I wonder about prayer and G-d at that moment. About if it would be possible, somehow, to measure force or velocity or weight of prayer in large group gatherings. To measure Mass. 

Mass of prayer. A prayer Mass. 

It makes sense. 

During horrific events like a plane crash or a bombing, if we were able to hook victims up to some sort of wave device, would we be able to move the needle simply with the massive force of hope? Could their prayer and power be harnessed and measured? Surely, at that moment, humanity all cries out with the same sentiments.

Save me.

Save me.

Help me.

Please. Please.

Give me strength.

Give me strength.

I wonder, as I place my fingers between those of my best friend, if prayer is its own cloud. Tangible. Tactile. Touchable.

A cottony covering on which we may tread.

A belief we hold as children that evolves to a faith we nurture as adults.

I jot down these words as we begin our descent:

The Landing of Flight 1670

Collective bargaining agreement

you can measure, 

prayer power,

on departure. Take off.

Arrival. Death and Birth. The end and start.

The bumps increase the most;

the tangible forcefield created 

by shared hopes and dreams.

He is a Son.

A Hand.

A Spirit.

Allah or Mohammed.

Adonai.

A deity direct dial from any

locale.

Call collect or, no,

no,

No phone necessary.

Why search for proof?

Does it matter?

Tap into the seismograph

waves of your soul.

White lace and gossamer breath.

I’ve spent my entire life being sure.

I planned.

I perfected.

I appeased stringent and invisible guidelines.

I smiled visible smiles.

I held onto the rails and did.not.scream.

I ran endurance races earned Masters Cum Laude nailed interviews had parties cleaned and cooked and washed and folded and sat in the NICU and the PICU and sang and danced and read and mothered and — I stopped.

Stop.

I needed to stop. I needed to say give me strength. 

Give me. Strength. 

Hear me. Speak.

I thought I knew where I was going.  I am so glad, now, that I didn’t. I am glad for that roller coaster drop. For the ride in the convertible. 

I am glad that I am no longer afraid. I am so fortunate that I have been taught to let sound out.

To drop the mask.

To take a hand.

To trust.

To open myself.

To walk back into the classroom. To teach. Write. Breathe.

To have faith. In so many things. 

In love. 

In my children.

In myself.

I believe we will all get where we are going.

That scary roller-coaster drop into the return space is merely an arrival at a destination.

And the rail we can choose to hold? That’s faith.

I have learned to not look at the others carrying on with their hands in the air.

The only one watching, the one that matters,

is You.