I sat down to write today with a couple ideas in mind. I could write my obligatory New Year's Resolutions post, or I could write a post recapping 2012. I could also write a post about Christmas and all the fun that entailed (snow!!!). However, I don't know what I want to accomplish in 2013 quite yet. When I started thinking back on 2012, I literally couldn't think of one significant thing that happened to me. Scary, right? And I have determined Christmas for two 26-year-olds without children is kind of like a piece of cake with no icing. There is definitely something left to be desired.
The one thing that did come to mind when I was thinking about all of the end of the year activities that have been happening lately is that I feel like 2012 has been a really weird year for my family and me. We spent the first half of the year still very much feeling the effects (or is it affects? I for some reason have never figured this out) of my mom's cancer diagnosis that happened in May 2011. My mom was pretty sick the first half of 2012. There were numerous doctor's visits and trips to M.D. Anderson to try to get her health under control. The first half of the year was awful to be honest. It was hard. In turn, I don't really remember much about those months. I guess part of coping for me is focusing on each individual day as if those twenty four hours are the only ones worth worrying with.
In January of this past year, I did find out I had been selected to coach in the Arkansas All-Star volleyball game that they hold at the U of A campus each summer. I remember being so excited that I was voted to be a coach. I remember worrying that my mom would not be healthy enough to come watch me at the game (the match was in June). I remember feeling so much like a teenager again - wondering if my mom would be able to be somewhere I wanted her to be. It was a bummer.
However, the second half of 2012 certainly turned around. My mom's health has improved so much since a year ago. My mom was in fact in attendance at the all-star game this past summer, and she has continued to feel better and get stronger ever since. If you didn't know she had cancer, you would never suspect it. I am so proud of her for hanging in and fighting to get healthy. It wasn't easy or pleasant for anyone involved, but it was necessary.
2011 went from good to bad on April 22nd when my mom was diagnosed. 2012 followed the exact opposite pattern because of my mom's successful treatment. The past two years are evidence that I have no idea what 2013 will hold. I don't know what will happen in these next twelve months, but I do know that whatever it is, it will be what is supposed to happen. There will be good things and there will be bad. Regardless of the circumstances, a year from now when I sit down to reflect on another year, I want to feel like I have done my best to appreciate all the days of 2013 - the good, the bad, the indifferent. I think it's important to be present for every kind of day that might come along. It makes the good better and the bad a little less. The indifferent days in between must be for catching your breath.
Maybe I just wrote my New Year's resolution post after all.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Vulnerable
I am really terrible at being vulnerable. It was difficult for me to even type the word “vulnerable.” Vulnerable. Vulnerable. Vulnerable. Ick.
This past week has been hard. The shooting in Connecticut has rippled in the minds of a lot of us, and I can’t seem to calm the ripples.
I am not the best at handling terrible happenings. When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and I was in high school, I adopted a really weird and twisted way of coping with bad news. Whenever I love someone so, so much, ( I’m talking love beyond measure, love without limit, love like the kind of love you are lucky to have), I imagine that person dying. Yes, I said dying. I go so far as to force myself to consider different ways that person might die. I envision myself at their funeral. I make myself imagine my daily routine without them being a part of it. I feel like I have to experience the worst before it actually comes. When my mom was sick, I was so scared she would die. The thought of losing her literally made me physically ill with fear. In an attempt to prepare myself for the worst, I tried to experience the worst. At the time it seemed like a logical approach. I felt the need to beat bad stuff to the punch. If I had already thought of the most terrible thing in the world happening, then maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible if it actually ever happened.
After my mom recovered when I was in high school, I quit thinking these awful thoughts. For a while, I didn’t feel the need to prepare for some sort of catastrophe. Unfortunately, when my mom was diagnosed again in 2011, the thoughts came back. However, now I have expanded my death visions (what a cool name by the way) to other people. I tell myself this is a good thing, really. It just means that I have more people in my life to love. The weird thoughts have expanded to my dad and Cody. (Side note: I have a killer eulogy for Cody if he ever kicks the bucket). I know. I know. It’s not funny. I’m pretty sure this confession is enough to make me sound like I am completely unstable. Maybe I am.
Since my mom’s most recent diagnosis, I do feel like I have made some strides in a positive direction toward dealing with cancer or death or elementary school shootings. I have made a more concerted effort to focus on the present and the people in my life who I do love so much. I make myself appreciate the moments that things are so perfect. I also read a lot about people who have had to cope with some sort of grief. Recently, I was reading Kelle Hampton’s blog, entitled “Enjoying the Small Things,” in which she writes about the shooting in Connecticut and dealing with loss and love. In the blog, Hampton quotes the book Daring Greatly by Brene Brown in which Brown says:
“Don’t squander joy. We can’t prepare for tragedy and loss. When we turn every opportunity to feel joy into a test drive for despair, we actually diminish our resilience. Yes, softening into joy is uncomfortable. Yes, it’s scary. Yes, it’s vulnerable. But every time we allow ourselves to lean into joy and give in to those moments, we build resilience and we cultivate hope. The joy becomes part of who we are, and when bad things happen—and they do happen—we are stronger.”
I don’t think that quote could be more fitting for me and for anyone who loves someone. I spend so much time preparing for something that may never happen. I have been “test driving” despair since I was 16. I worry and worry and worry about the awful, instead of just living in the beautiful right now. I have squandered entirely too much joy. It makes sense that enveloping yourself in the good emotions of this world will equip you for the bad emotions. I have spent too much of my life with the exact opposite approach (i.e. death visions). I have to do a better job at being vulnerable and being grateful that I have so many people to love.
When I read that quote for the first time, I thought of all of the families of those children that were killed. I assume that being a parent, especially to a 6 or 7 year old, forces you to be vulnerable unlike any relationship you have ever experienced. I pray that those families did not squander joy. I hope they spent every minute with those babies loving them and needing them and appreciating them. I hope that they never once guarded themselves from the pure joy that being a parent allows. I hope that the parents and grandparents and sisters and brothers in Newtown leaned into the joy that each of those kids brought to their lives. I hope there wasn’t a moment of joy squandered, because when you stop and think about it, it is truly all we have to do. To love each other. And experience the joy of today. And be vulnerable. We have to have faith that eventually all that love and joy will in fact become part of who we are.
Vulnerable. Vulnerable. Vulnerable…it was easier that time.
This past week has been hard. The shooting in Connecticut has rippled in the minds of a lot of us, and I can’t seem to calm the ripples.
I am not the best at handling terrible happenings. When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and I was in high school, I adopted a really weird and twisted way of coping with bad news. Whenever I love someone so, so much, ( I’m talking love beyond measure, love without limit, love like the kind of love you are lucky to have), I imagine that person dying. Yes, I said dying. I go so far as to force myself to consider different ways that person might die. I envision myself at their funeral. I make myself imagine my daily routine without them being a part of it. I feel like I have to experience the worst before it actually comes. When my mom was sick, I was so scared she would die. The thought of losing her literally made me physically ill with fear. In an attempt to prepare myself for the worst, I tried to experience the worst. At the time it seemed like a logical approach. I felt the need to beat bad stuff to the punch. If I had already thought of the most terrible thing in the world happening, then maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible if it actually ever happened.
After my mom recovered when I was in high school, I quit thinking these awful thoughts. For a while, I didn’t feel the need to prepare for some sort of catastrophe. Unfortunately, when my mom was diagnosed again in 2011, the thoughts came back. However, now I have expanded my death visions (what a cool name by the way) to other people. I tell myself this is a good thing, really. It just means that I have more people in my life to love. The weird thoughts have expanded to my dad and Cody. (Side note: I have a killer eulogy for Cody if he ever kicks the bucket). I know. I know. It’s not funny. I’m pretty sure this confession is enough to make me sound like I am completely unstable. Maybe I am.
Since my mom’s most recent diagnosis, I do feel like I have made some strides in a positive direction toward dealing with cancer or death or elementary school shootings. I have made a more concerted effort to focus on the present and the people in my life who I do love so much. I make myself appreciate the moments that things are so perfect. I also read a lot about people who have had to cope with some sort of grief. Recently, I was reading Kelle Hampton’s blog, entitled “Enjoying the Small Things,” in which she writes about the shooting in Connecticut and dealing with loss and love. In the blog, Hampton quotes the book Daring Greatly by Brene Brown in which Brown says:
“Don’t squander joy. We can’t prepare for tragedy and loss. When we turn every opportunity to feel joy into a test drive for despair, we actually diminish our resilience. Yes, softening into joy is uncomfortable. Yes, it’s scary. Yes, it’s vulnerable. But every time we allow ourselves to lean into joy and give in to those moments, we build resilience and we cultivate hope. The joy becomes part of who we are, and when bad things happen—and they do happen—we are stronger.”
I don’t think that quote could be more fitting for me and for anyone who loves someone. I spend so much time preparing for something that may never happen. I have been “test driving” despair since I was 16. I worry and worry and worry about the awful, instead of just living in the beautiful right now. I have squandered entirely too much joy. It makes sense that enveloping yourself in the good emotions of this world will equip you for the bad emotions. I have spent too much of my life with the exact opposite approach (i.e. death visions). I have to do a better job at being vulnerable and being grateful that I have so many people to love.
When I read that quote for the first time, I thought of all of the families of those children that were killed. I assume that being a parent, especially to a 6 or 7 year old, forces you to be vulnerable unlike any relationship you have ever experienced. I pray that those families did not squander joy. I hope they spent every minute with those babies loving them and needing them and appreciating them. I hope that they never once guarded themselves from the pure joy that being a parent allows. I hope that the parents and grandparents and sisters and brothers in Newtown leaned into the joy that each of those kids brought to their lives. I hope there wasn’t a moment of joy squandered, because when you stop and think about it, it is truly all we have to do. To love each other. And experience the joy of today. And be vulnerable. We have to have faith that eventually all that love and joy will in fact become part of who we are.
Vulnerable. Vulnerable. Vulnerable…it was easier that time.
Monday, December 17, 2012
A Gun for a Gun?
I found myself in the new Cabela's in NWA this weekend. Cody and I were buying a Christmas present for his father when we wandered into the gun section of the store (at Cody's request). I am not a gun person. I was not raised around guns. My family owned a gun that was never brought out of its hiding spot because my parents did not think guns and kids mix very well. Sunday afternoon in that store I paid a lot more attention to the folks interested in guns than I would have on a normal basis. After unthinkable happenings like what occurred in Connecticut, it is impossible not to reconsider the attitude and laws our country has about firearms.
As I looked around the store, I saw a whole lot of the same thing. I saw a lot of men. I saw a lot of camouflage. I saw a lot of shirts with sayings like "Git r done" and "If it flies, it dies." I saw a lot of tattooed forearms. I saw more than one Confederate flag. I saw a lot of wide eyes and goofy smiles on the faces of adults who looked like a kid on Christmas morning. I saw people browsing toys, not carefully considering the purchase of a dangerous weapon. I saw a lot of people who did not need a(nother) gun. I saw a lot of people not considering a semi-automatic weapon for any other reason than it looks cool and it would shoot stuff real hard. In that store, I couldn't help but feel like I was witnessing a microcosm of America. A society that wants guns to play with, not to defend ourselves with. A society that wants guns to show off in a shed in the backyard, not to hunt animals with. A society that feels more powerful or like more of a man if you can list the plethora of weapons you own. A society that has lost track of owning guns as a necessity, rather than for fun.
Before we get all up in arms (pun intended), know this. I most definitely believe that people should be able to own guns. On a regular basis, I want the government to dictate as little of my everyday existence as possible. I understand the Constitution, and I know that it includes "the right to bear arms." However, I don't think our Founding Fathers had in mind semi-automatic assault rifles specifically designed to kill a lot of people in a little amount of time as the type of arms they were guaranteeing their predecessors to bear. Assault rifles are not necessary for normal people. They should not be legal. I realize that making them illegal will not keep people from getting them, but I think the message of the law is more important than the actual implementation thereof. We need to start changing our attitude about guns. Our current situation is clearly not working for us.
School shootings scare me. They scared me as a student, and scare me more as a teacher. I don't think there is anything anyone could have done to stop that crazy person from entering that school in Connecticut last Friday. However, I know that the answer to decreasing gun violence cannot be making guns more accessible. We cannot answer violence with more violence. We do not need to arm teachers. More guns must equal more gun deaths. I don't know the answer, but we owe it to all of the people who endure terrible tragedies like in Newtown, CT or Aurora, CO or Littleton, CO to look for some different answers.
As I looked around the store, I saw a whole lot of the same thing. I saw a lot of men. I saw a lot of camouflage. I saw a lot of shirts with sayings like "Git r done" and "If it flies, it dies." I saw a lot of tattooed forearms. I saw more than one Confederate flag. I saw a lot of wide eyes and goofy smiles on the faces of adults who looked like a kid on Christmas morning. I saw people browsing toys, not carefully considering the purchase of a dangerous weapon. I saw a lot of people who did not need a(nother) gun. I saw a lot of people not considering a semi-automatic weapon for any other reason than it looks cool and it would shoot stuff real hard. In that store, I couldn't help but feel like I was witnessing a microcosm of America. A society that wants guns to play with, not to defend ourselves with. A society that wants guns to show off in a shed in the backyard, not to hunt animals with. A society that feels more powerful or like more of a man if you can list the plethora of weapons you own. A society that has lost track of owning guns as a necessity, rather than for fun.
Before we get all up in arms (pun intended), know this. I most definitely believe that people should be able to own guns. On a regular basis, I want the government to dictate as little of my everyday existence as possible. I understand the Constitution, and I know that it includes "the right to bear arms." However, I don't think our Founding Fathers had in mind semi-automatic assault rifles specifically designed to kill a lot of people in a little amount of time as the type of arms they were guaranteeing their predecessors to bear. Assault rifles are not necessary for normal people. They should not be legal. I realize that making them illegal will not keep people from getting them, but I think the message of the law is more important than the actual implementation thereof. We need to start changing our attitude about guns. Our current situation is clearly not working for us.
School shootings scare me. They scared me as a student, and scare me more as a teacher. I don't think there is anything anyone could have done to stop that crazy person from entering that school in Connecticut last Friday. However, I know that the answer to decreasing gun violence cannot be making guns more accessible. We cannot answer violence with more violence. We do not need to arm teachers. More guns must equal more gun deaths. I don't know the answer, but we owe it to all of the people who endure terrible tragedies like in Newtown, CT or Aurora, CO or Littleton, CO to look for some different answers.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Without a Paddle
A few days ago I started to write about a really sweet thing that my husband did for me recently. I recounted the experience and described how great of a man Cody is. I professed how grateful I am for him, and pretty much made myself nauseous talking so nicely about my husband. I obviously didn’t post that ridiculous display of love. Not my style.
However, I do remember the last sentence of my discarded blog going something like this: “I realize most of you will roll your eyes at all of this love stuff, but I should probably post it anyway in order to be able to revisit these thoughts when my husband does something stupid in the near future.” Guess what? I was right.
Monday night we had a crisis at the Prater Casa. No, I’m not sure crisis covers this. Maybe a better word would be a debacle, a disaster, a catastrophe, or an emergency of epic proportion. Those might cover it. We had an issue, folks. The details of said issue I am not going to delve into simply because this is a family blog (I realize this is not actually a family blog) and I don’t want small children being scarred for life (as I am). I will tell you that I was home alone when this homeowner’s nightmare occurred. I will reveal that we ended up removing a sink and a rug from our home. I had to purchase more than one mop, a jug (yes, jug) of Lysol, and rubber gloves (no, I did not own any of those things beforehand. Domesticity is not my style either). And I will also tell you that I called my husband in a more desperate-almost-crying-but-more-just-freaking-out state than I have experienced since I have had the pleasure of calling Cody my own.
Oh, and the last and most important part of this story for you to know is that it was all my husband’s fault. Regardless of his side of the story, it was all his fault.
I have since recovered for the most part from this craziness. We ended up enlisting a plumber (by the way, call the plumber the first time you have an issue or you might flood your house) that came and fixed our problem for less than a hundred dollars. After the fact, everything is fine, as is the case with most everything in this life. After the stress of the event passed, I couldn’t help but laugh. I went from one extreme to the other of the emotional spectrum with my husband all within a matter of hours. Thankfully, I have also found myself back in the happy medium area with Cody that I exist in the vast majority of our time together.
The other day when I was writing my thrown away entry, I wrote about different relationships people around me have with their significant others. We all spend our lives watching other people navigate the often times difficult responsibility of building partnerships. I don’t know how Cody and I have learned to weather the storms of life together, but we have. Furthermore, we have learned to weather the storms without hurting each other anymore than the circumstances we are having to endure. I realize we are young, but I contend that in this small window of time Cody and I have experienced our fair share of adversity. Cody is not perfect, and neither am I. But at the end of the day, no matter if we are sopping up sewage with our bare hands or weighing the option of having a child together or trying to cope with life-changing news, it’s comforting to know that I am not left to fight those fires on my own. I take comfort in knowing that Cody is present and willing to fight for me and for us no matter what obstacle we face. Cody is a good person and perhaps the best teammate I could have ever drafted (err, married) to have a successful run in this world. I appreciate him a lot...Even though he flooded my house. And tried to blame it on me. And quite possibly altered the gaseous makeup of my pantry forever. And kept me from watching Teen Mom 2. And still hasn’t exactly come right out and apologized for the whole mess.
Other than that, I love him. Sort of.
However, I do remember the last sentence of my discarded blog going something like this: “I realize most of you will roll your eyes at all of this love stuff, but I should probably post it anyway in order to be able to revisit these thoughts when my husband does something stupid in the near future.” Guess what? I was right.
Monday night we had a crisis at the Prater Casa. No, I’m not sure crisis covers this. Maybe a better word would be a debacle, a disaster, a catastrophe, or an emergency of epic proportion. Those might cover it. We had an issue, folks. The details of said issue I am not going to delve into simply because this is a family blog (I realize this is not actually a family blog) and I don’t want small children being scarred for life (as I am). I will tell you that I was home alone when this homeowner’s nightmare occurred. I will reveal that we ended up removing a sink and a rug from our home. I had to purchase more than one mop, a jug (yes, jug) of Lysol, and rubber gloves (no, I did not own any of those things beforehand. Domesticity is not my style either). And I will also tell you that I called my husband in a more desperate-almost-crying-but-more-just-freaking-out state than I have experienced since I have had the pleasure of calling Cody my own.
Oh, and the last and most important part of this story for you to know is that it was all my husband’s fault. Regardless of his side of the story, it was all his fault.
I have since recovered for the most part from this craziness. We ended up enlisting a plumber (by the way, call the plumber the first time you have an issue or you might flood your house) that came and fixed our problem for less than a hundred dollars. After the fact, everything is fine, as is the case with most everything in this life. After the stress of the event passed, I couldn’t help but laugh. I went from one extreme to the other of the emotional spectrum with my husband all within a matter of hours. Thankfully, I have also found myself back in the happy medium area with Cody that I exist in the vast majority of our time together.
The other day when I was writing my thrown away entry, I wrote about different relationships people around me have with their significant others. We all spend our lives watching other people navigate the often times difficult responsibility of building partnerships. I don’t know how Cody and I have learned to weather the storms of life together, but we have. Furthermore, we have learned to weather the storms without hurting each other anymore than the circumstances we are having to endure. I realize we are young, but I contend that in this small window of time Cody and I have experienced our fair share of adversity. Cody is not perfect, and neither am I. But at the end of the day, no matter if we are sopping up sewage with our bare hands or weighing the option of having a child together or trying to cope with life-changing news, it’s comforting to know that I am not left to fight those fires on my own. I take comfort in knowing that Cody is present and willing to fight for me and for us no matter what obstacle we face. Cody is a good person and perhaps the best teammate I could have ever drafted (err, married) to have a successful run in this world. I appreciate him a lot...Even though he flooded my house. And tried to blame it on me. And quite possibly altered the gaseous makeup of my pantry forever. And kept me from watching Teen Mom 2. And still hasn’t exactly come right out and apologized for the whole mess.
Other than that, I love him. Sort of.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Oprah Said So
I read an article today (Thanskgiving Day) about Oprah and gratitude. I generally try to stay away from listing the million things that I should be thankful for on this third Thursday of November. Really, we're all thankful for pretty much the same things. However, the almighty Oprah told me today that "gratitude elevates your life to a higher frequency." Who am I to deny that wisdom?
In the article I read, Oprah told about the gratitude journal that she kept years ago. She mentioned that on August 12, 2004 in her journal she noted that she was thankful for very mundane things like "noticing how the light hits the tree leaves" and making the "perfect omelet." In honor of the once queen of daytime television, I have been thinking all day long about the smallest things in this world that I am grateful for. I have noticed these things today:
The way the World Book Ecyclopedias in my Mamaw's house smell exactly like being a kid.
The noise of tennis shoes on a gym floor.
Track #5 on Taylor Swift's "Red" album. Specifically the last verse. Teenage girl perfection.
Lemon pie.
Conversations with people that get it.
My inclination to call my mom numerous times a day just to ask what she's doing.
My mom being able to answer those phone calls each day.
The chill in the air when the sun goes down.
Going to sleep without setting an alarm.
Cody.
I could go on and on.
Oprah must be on to something. It's entirely too easy for me to get wrapped up in what could be improved upon, rather than remembering all that is right. Maybe it takes a day filled with good food and lots of family or the advice of a billionaire to remind us to be grateful. Regardless of what does the trick, it's always nice to make note of all the good.
In the article I read, Oprah told about the gratitude journal that she kept years ago. She mentioned that on August 12, 2004 in her journal she noted that she was thankful for very mundane things like "noticing how the light hits the tree leaves" and making the "perfect omelet." In honor of the once queen of daytime television, I have been thinking all day long about the smallest things in this world that I am grateful for. I have noticed these things today:
The way the World Book Ecyclopedias in my Mamaw's house smell exactly like being a kid.
The noise of tennis shoes on a gym floor.
Track #5 on Taylor Swift's "Red" album. Specifically the last verse. Teenage girl perfection.
Lemon pie.
Conversations with people that get it.
My inclination to call my mom numerous times a day just to ask what she's doing.
My mom being able to answer those phone calls each day.
The chill in the air when the sun goes down.
Going to sleep without setting an alarm.
Cody.
I could go on and on.
Oprah must be on to something. It's entirely too easy for me to get wrapped up in what could be improved upon, rather than remembering all that is right. Maybe it takes a day filled with good food and lots of family or the advice of a billionaire to remind us to be grateful. Regardless of what does the trick, it's always nice to make note of all the good.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Excuses, Excuses
Recently I have been throwing a bit of a pity party. A few things haven't gone exactly as I hoped. Some work stuff, some me stuff, and some life stuff just hasn't worked out like I planned. Unfortunately, as a perpetual planner, bumps in the road frustrate me.
In the midst of my pity party, I started to narrow down exactly why things haven't been working out in my favor. Some of the stuff I have absolutely no control over, and that's okay. The older I get the more I accept that the world cannot always be controlled. The things that have bothered me the most are the ones that I simply haven't been willing to invest the time and effort in to ensure that they do go my way. And that's weird. Traditionally, I have never been a lazy person. I am generally always willing to work at something. I like competing. I like moving forward. I like being good at whatever it is I decide to do. Recently, I haven't been that way. It's like the more time that passes, the less I care. It's really weird. I have found myself constantly making excuses based on a hypothetical something in the future.
One of the most exhausting parts of being an adult is that life stops being planned for you. In high school, I was waiting to graduate. For me there was an obvious next step. College was spent trying to figure out what to do after college. I jumped the next obvious hurdle and found a job and it's like I've been coasting ever since. I could get a Master's. I could find another career in general. I could get married (I did by the way). I could have a kid (I didn't by the way). I could do all of these things. Or, I could go to work everyday and slide through life for the first time in forever. I'm afraid that's the option I chose.
Granted, I have recently decided on one of the above "could's" that I will actually make progress toward this Spring. However, that doesn't change the cloak of laziness and complacency that has hovered over me here lately. And the scariest most ridiculous part of this entire process has been the underlying reason for my laziness. I think I have been coasting recently because my husband hasn't been. I've been hoping that Cody's willingness to go out and try to make things happen in this world would allow me to not have to go out and make things happen. Who am I? And where did Katy Schrodt go?
Needless to say, I have started to screw my head on straight. I am making steps forward. I am accepting that there will always be unforeseen happenings to which I will adapt regardless of all of the other balls I'm juggling. And when I really get down on myself, I hop on Facebook and stalk all of the people my age that are still working on that bachelor's degree or living with Mom and Dad, and I breathe a little easier for a few minutes. So here's to people in this world that will always be a step behind. Without you, the rest of us would have to be a lot more productive, and that would mean I would not have experienced the first three seasons of "Big Bang Theory" or read all of those awesome books lately.
In the midst of my pity party, I started to narrow down exactly why things haven't been working out in my favor. Some of the stuff I have absolutely no control over, and that's okay. The older I get the more I accept that the world cannot always be controlled. The things that have bothered me the most are the ones that I simply haven't been willing to invest the time and effort in to ensure that they do go my way. And that's weird. Traditionally, I have never been a lazy person. I am generally always willing to work at something. I like competing. I like moving forward. I like being good at whatever it is I decide to do. Recently, I haven't been that way. It's like the more time that passes, the less I care. It's really weird. I have found myself constantly making excuses based on a hypothetical something in the future.
One of the most exhausting parts of being an adult is that life stops being planned for you. In high school, I was waiting to graduate. For me there was an obvious next step. College was spent trying to figure out what to do after college. I jumped the next obvious hurdle and found a job and it's like I've been coasting ever since. I could get a Master's. I could find another career in general. I could get married (I did by the way). I could have a kid (I didn't by the way). I could do all of these things. Or, I could go to work everyday and slide through life for the first time in forever. I'm afraid that's the option I chose.
Granted, I have recently decided on one of the above "could's" that I will actually make progress toward this Spring. However, that doesn't change the cloak of laziness and complacency that has hovered over me here lately. And the scariest most ridiculous part of this entire process has been the underlying reason for my laziness. I think I have been coasting recently because my husband hasn't been. I've been hoping that Cody's willingness to go out and try to make things happen in this world would allow me to not have to go out and make things happen. Who am I? And where did Katy Schrodt go?
Needless to say, I have started to screw my head on straight. I am making steps forward. I am accepting that there will always be unforeseen happenings to which I will adapt regardless of all of the other balls I'm juggling. And when I really get down on myself, I hop on Facebook and stalk all of the people my age that are still working on that bachelor's degree or living with Mom and Dad, and I breathe a little easier for a few minutes. So here's to people in this world that will always be a step behind. Without you, the rest of us would have to be a lot more productive, and that would mean I would not have experienced the first three seasons of "Big Bang Theory" or read all of those awesome books lately.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Brighter, Truer, Slower
It is no secret the John Knowles’ A Separate Peace is one of my favorite books (I mean I named one of my dogs after one of the main characters). I read it initially in 9th grade. I by no means think I understood the depth of the book at 14, but I did understand the pain that often coincides with some of our closest relationships. In my English classes, I used to teach Lord of the Flies as my big novel in the first semester. However, a person can only take so much of that British accent and conch shells. Last year I decided to try to teach ASP and have been pleasantly surprised at how well my kids take to it.
Now, I realize that most people in this world who do not teach high school are probably daunted by the concept of teaching the same 45 minute block of instruction to different students multiple times a day. I can assure you that teachers are much more daunted by this task than you are. Nonetheless, one of the byproducts of having read ASP approximately 6 times in my life and three times a day for the past few days is that my analysis and appreciation of the book keeps growing. And this is how I know ASP is truly as magical as I believed when I was 14.
I was reading to my kids today (yes, I also roll my eyes at the thought of a high school teacher having to read out loud to kids…can we say spoon feeding? Don’t even get me started on the trials and tribulations of the American educational system. And do not judge until you teach. Boom) I read a paragraph from the book that seemed as new and brilliant and earth-shattering as anything else I’ve ever read before. Brace yourselves:
“Everyone has a moment in history which belongs particularly to him. It is the moment when his emotions achieve their most powerful sway over him, and afterward when you say to this person ‘the world today’ or ‘life’ or ‘reality’ he will assume that you mean this moment, even if it is fifty years past. The world, through his unleashed emotions, imprinted itself upon him, and he carries the stamp of that passing moment forever.”
I’m going to need you to go ahead and reread that a few times. I’ll wait. Go on.
In the book, the narrator goes on to explain that his moment in history is World War II and all that the war meant in terms of life in America. He goes on to explain that he identifies with this moment so much because he was 16 years old during WWII, and he was existing in the most selfish, innocent, beautiful moment of his life as a 16 year old kid. His beautiful moment just happen to be set against one of the most brutal wars in American history.
After having read this paragraph from the book, I couldn’t help but think about my moment in history that belongs solely to me. I decided that the moment when my emotions achieved their most powerful sway over me (as described in the paragraph) has to be when I was 16. Now, I realize that as a 26 year old I don’t have a ton of moments to choose from; however, I truly do believe that as a teenager life seemed more alive. Colors were brighter. Words were truer. Moments were slower. I know that as a teenager life for me possessed a drama and glamour that I don’t have as an adult. I know that as a teenager I felt more alive than I do now, if for no other reason than life was newer when I was younger. I think everyone has this experience, whether they make note of it or not (side note: I am consistently drawn to those people in this world who do in fact make note of this passage of time more so than the rest of you surface level jokers).
There are a few big moments that happened to me when I was in high school that are with me still today. And when I think of “life” as a general, lofty, abstract concept, I generally default to cancer and competition and loneliness and love and friendship; all of which cut deeper and mended more cleanly than those same experiences I have had as an adult. And as the book states those moments certainly have imprinted upon me.
I often wonder why I spend time remembering years of my life that were undeniably hard to bear (Generally, this is the point in time when I consider looking in to some type of therapy). But reading that paragraph from ASP shed some light on the reason for my being incessantly cognizant of the past. Why would I ever want to forget the moments that were the most real, the most accessible, the most impactful? In fact, I spend a lot of my life today looking for ways to retrace my steps to moments in life when emotions are unleashed and my reality is seen through the brighter, truer, slower filter of my moment in history. Thankfully, as an adult, I find myself much more appreciative of those slow moments when something is everything. They may be fewer and further between than they used to be, but they are certainly more consumed than years ago.
And that folks is why A Separate Peace is beautiful and right and perfect in so many ways. And that folks is why I really like teaching English (sometimes).
Now, I realize that most people in this world who do not teach high school are probably daunted by the concept of teaching the same 45 minute block of instruction to different students multiple times a day. I can assure you that teachers are much more daunted by this task than you are. Nonetheless, one of the byproducts of having read ASP approximately 6 times in my life and three times a day for the past few days is that my analysis and appreciation of the book keeps growing. And this is how I know ASP is truly as magical as I believed when I was 14.
I was reading to my kids today (yes, I also roll my eyes at the thought of a high school teacher having to read out loud to kids…can we say spoon feeding? Don’t even get me started on the trials and tribulations of the American educational system. And do not judge until you teach. Boom) I read a paragraph from the book that seemed as new and brilliant and earth-shattering as anything else I’ve ever read before. Brace yourselves:
“Everyone has a moment in history which belongs particularly to him. It is the moment when his emotions achieve their most powerful sway over him, and afterward when you say to this person ‘the world today’ or ‘life’ or ‘reality’ he will assume that you mean this moment, even if it is fifty years past. The world, through his unleashed emotions, imprinted itself upon him, and he carries the stamp of that passing moment forever.”
I’m going to need you to go ahead and reread that a few times. I’ll wait. Go on.
In the book, the narrator goes on to explain that his moment in history is World War II and all that the war meant in terms of life in America. He goes on to explain that he identifies with this moment so much because he was 16 years old during WWII, and he was existing in the most selfish, innocent, beautiful moment of his life as a 16 year old kid. His beautiful moment just happen to be set against one of the most brutal wars in American history.
After having read this paragraph from the book, I couldn’t help but think about my moment in history that belongs solely to me. I decided that the moment when my emotions achieved their most powerful sway over me (as described in the paragraph) has to be when I was 16. Now, I realize that as a 26 year old I don’t have a ton of moments to choose from; however, I truly do believe that as a teenager life seemed more alive. Colors were brighter. Words were truer. Moments were slower. I know that as a teenager life for me possessed a drama and glamour that I don’t have as an adult. I know that as a teenager I felt more alive than I do now, if for no other reason than life was newer when I was younger. I think everyone has this experience, whether they make note of it or not (side note: I am consistently drawn to those people in this world who do in fact make note of this passage of time more so than the rest of you surface level jokers).
There are a few big moments that happened to me when I was in high school that are with me still today. And when I think of “life” as a general, lofty, abstract concept, I generally default to cancer and competition and loneliness and love and friendship; all of which cut deeper and mended more cleanly than those same experiences I have had as an adult. And as the book states those moments certainly have imprinted upon me.
I often wonder why I spend time remembering years of my life that were undeniably hard to bear (Generally, this is the point in time when I consider looking in to some type of therapy). But reading that paragraph from ASP shed some light on the reason for my being incessantly cognizant of the past. Why would I ever want to forget the moments that were the most real, the most accessible, the most impactful? In fact, I spend a lot of my life today looking for ways to retrace my steps to moments in life when emotions are unleashed and my reality is seen through the brighter, truer, slower filter of my moment in history. Thankfully, as an adult, I find myself much more appreciative of those slow moments when something is everything. They may be fewer and further between than they used to be, but they are certainly more consumed than years ago.
And that folks is why A Separate Peace is beautiful and right and perfect in so many ways. And that folks is why I really like teaching English (sometimes).
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Baby Sandwiches
I read three articles today. One was about a miscarriage. One about a successful birth. And another about the loss of a parent months after that successful birth. And I wonder why I’m a bit on edge.
When I read the first essay about miscarrying a child, I couldn’t help but think about my somewhat recent revelations about children. When I was a teenager, I was convinced that getting pregnant was as simple as…making a sandwich. Both are fairly straightforward processes. Both involve following steps. Everyone knows how to do both…at least in theory. At a bare minimum, everyone at least knows the ingredients needed for both babies and sandwiches. There may be different toppings on your sandwich (both the literal and metaphorical sandwich), but overall the end result of both is pretty obvious. I was convinced that people must get pregnant at the drop of a hat, because why else would people accidentally get pregnant? I heard stories of girls getting pregnant after only having made one sandwich. I heard enough accidental sandwich making stories to know that I needed to stay as far away from the bread as possible.
The aforementioned fear of the bread mixed with some other weird ingredients (religious guilt, lack of male suitors, extreme desire to “follow rules”) resulted in me staying as far away from baby making as possible. It wasn’t until college that I got a boyfriend (my now husband) who I would have even considered being the father of my hypothetical children. And still, no sandwiches (back to the religious guilt). Nonetheless, as a married person now, I consider having children much more frequently and with less panic than I did years ago. Soon after we got married, I assumed that whenever I (we) wanted to have a baby, I (we) would just head to the kitchen and poof! A baby would appear.
Eventually, I learned how the female reproductive system actually works. And I started paying attention to all of the young people around me trying to have a child. And I also started watching a lot of “Guiliana and Bill” and I realized that babies are not that easy. I talked to people who miscarried a child and read about people who miscarried a child and knew people who didn’t get pregnant for months and months and months, and I finally started to realize that babies are not like sandwiches. Babies are far too miraculous to come and go on your own time. Babies are my proof that there is something bigger than us playing some role in this world. Babies are scary and permanent and loud and needy and a lot harder to care for than dogs. But there has to be something more to them than that. They must be useful for something; otherwise people would stop having so many of them.
After all of these revelations about babies, I was just about convinced to have one. I have good genes. Cody has good genes. I have wide set hips and a long torso, and my grandmother has always told me that Schrodt women are made for having babies. I was ready to let go of the one thing that allows me some connection to my own youth; I was ready to have a child. Gulp.
Then I went to work. And unfortunately, my students just recently completed a project in my class that requires them to bring a picture of themselves as a baby. As I filtered through pictures of those sweet, innocent, loving babies, I couldn’t help but wonder if their poor parents ever imagined those babies would evolve into the adolescents I deal with on a daily basis. And then I decided that 26 isn’t really that old. And I probably still have plenty of viable eggs left.
When I read the first essay about miscarrying a child, I couldn’t help but think about my somewhat recent revelations about children. When I was a teenager, I was convinced that getting pregnant was as simple as…making a sandwich. Both are fairly straightforward processes. Both involve following steps. Everyone knows how to do both…at least in theory. At a bare minimum, everyone at least knows the ingredients needed for both babies and sandwiches. There may be different toppings on your sandwich (both the literal and metaphorical sandwich), but overall the end result of both is pretty obvious. I was convinced that people must get pregnant at the drop of a hat, because why else would people accidentally get pregnant? I heard stories of girls getting pregnant after only having made one sandwich. I heard enough accidental sandwich making stories to know that I needed to stay as far away from the bread as possible.
The aforementioned fear of the bread mixed with some other weird ingredients (religious guilt, lack of male suitors, extreme desire to “follow rules”) resulted in me staying as far away from baby making as possible. It wasn’t until college that I got a boyfriend (my now husband) who I would have even considered being the father of my hypothetical children. And still, no sandwiches (back to the religious guilt). Nonetheless, as a married person now, I consider having children much more frequently and with less panic than I did years ago. Soon after we got married, I assumed that whenever I (we) wanted to have a baby, I (we) would just head to the kitchen and poof! A baby would appear.
Eventually, I learned how the female reproductive system actually works. And I started paying attention to all of the young people around me trying to have a child. And I also started watching a lot of “Guiliana and Bill” and I realized that babies are not that easy. I talked to people who miscarried a child and read about people who miscarried a child and knew people who didn’t get pregnant for months and months and months, and I finally started to realize that babies are not like sandwiches. Babies are far too miraculous to come and go on your own time. Babies are my proof that there is something bigger than us playing some role in this world. Babies are scary and permanent and loud and needy and a lot harder to care for than dogs. But there has to be something more to them than that. They must be useful for something; otherwise people would stop having so many of them.
After all of these revelations about babies, I was just about convinced to have one. I have good genes. Cody has good genes. I have wide set hips and a long torso, and my grandmother has always told me that Schrodt women are made for having babies. I was ready to let go of the one thing that allows me some connection to my own youth; I was ready to have a child. Gulp.
Then I went to work. And unfortunately, my students just recently completed a project in my class that requires them to bring a picture of themselves as a baby. As I filtered through pictures of those sweet, innocent, loving babies, I couldn’t help but wonder if their poor parents ever imagined those babies would evolve into the adolescents I deal with on a daily basis. And then I decided that 26 isn’t really that old. And I probably still have plenty of viable eggs left.
Monday, September 17, 2012
A good book for a bad day...
On April 22, 2011 my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer for the third time in her life. I was 25 at the time. The time before my mom had cancer I was 16. The first time my mom had cancer I was 7. My family and I have run the cancer race a few times now. Nonetheless, my mom's most recent diagnosis has been by far the hardest one for me.
For years after my mom's second diagnosis I was really scared of her ever getting cancer again. At the same time, I always reasoned with myself that the likelihood of a rediagnosis had to be pretty slim. Who in the world gets diagnosed with cancer three times in one lifetime? When I talked to my dad on the phone last year with news about my mom, I literally reverted back to that 15 almost 16 year old kid who heard that same news years before. I was paralyzed with fear. Unfortunately though, I remember thinking that the fear seemed a lot more suffocating than I ever remembered as a teenager. I felt more responsible. I felt more invested. I felt more real than I did when I was in high school. And I felt a sense of urgency that wasn't present in 2001. As an adult I didn't have the brooding teenager facade to hide behind. I had to handle this situation with a lot more grace and finesse than I ever felt accountable to as a kid. I also had a husband living in the same house as me, which was a whole other weird experience to naviagate.
After the initial shock of my mom's diagnosis, I started to realize that I needed to find some resources to help me deal with the onslaught of emotions that held hostage my everyday existence. I knew that I couldn't just bury my head in the sand. I couldn't listen to my music really loud in hopes that the lyrics would drown out the truth. I couldn't slam doors and constantly tell people I was "ok." I couldn't just write in angst-filled notebooks about the unfairness of this world and wave off the caring few who really wanted to listent to my thoughts. I resolved early on to try to handle this cancer trip with a little more maturity than I had in high school.
One of the lessons I have learned about myself as I have gotten older is that I am inexplicably drawn to tortured people. I am intrigued by others who have fought fights that seem so impossibly unfair. I like to talk to people who have climbed mountains in the darkest of worlds. I take comfort in knowing that someone, somewhere has had it harder than me and survived. Knowing that someone else has walked the same road I am travelling has always served as a light at the end of my long, dark tunnel.
I started researching books about daughters of mothers with cancer. I needed to hear someone else's story. I needed to know I wasn't alone. I determined that there are not a lot of books about women who have had important women in their life fight cancer. One night I did notice that Amazon suggested for me a book entitled The Rules of Inheritance by Claire Bidwell Smith. On a whim, I clicked on the link and read the description of what fulfilled my every longing in a book.
I finished reading The Rules of Inheritance in about two days. It is Smith's memoir about both of her parents being diagnosed with cancer within days of one another. I took extreme solace in the fact that she had it worse than me (I know. It's sick.). Even better, she had it worse than me and had lived to tell about it. She had lived to write about it even. Smith's book tells the story of her parents' diagnosis and death from various perspectives. She recalls her experience as a teenager just learning of her parents' diagnosis, and as an adult years later dealing with the fallout of her parents' battles with cancer. It was relatable. And poignant. And heartbreaking. And candid. And eerily similiar to the way I was feeling. Smith's memory of her teenage self dealing with cancer helped me let my younger self off the hook for some years of confused emotions. It made me wish that 16 year old Katy had read a book about someone else's experience with cancer. It made me appreciate my younger self for crawling through that year from hell with the grit and fight that I still possess today. Smith's memory of her twenty-something self dealing with cancer helped me know that my current thoughts were not as weird and twisted as I worried they were. And it let me feel okay for feeling so alone.
Naturally, the book is sad. And hard to read at points. It is so very real and authentic. It is the most spot-on portrayal of life with a parent with cancer that I have ever come in contact with. I sat and read and drank in Smith's words with a thirst that only a desperate person can possess. I cried and cried and cried. And I loved every single word of it. It was exactly what I needed at the time. When I finished the book, I literally turned to page one and started reading again.
Since finishing The Rules of Inheritance, I have continued reading memoirs about people overcoming insurmountable odds. Claire Bidwell Smith introduced me to a world of people who have survived. She allowed me to move beyond feeling sorry for myself and instead start accepting and even appreciating that this is my story. It cannot be changed or altered, but instead only lived.
I have not lost my mother to cancer. And most days now I don't give a lot of thought to ever losing my mom to cancer. I do feel a little better equipped to handle the loss of anything or anyone who is important to me. I appreciate that a story about someone else's life can be so helpful to a complete stranger. And I kind of want to be Claire Bidwell Smith's BFF. Since I can't really arrange that, I try to keep pressing forward, appreciate the time I have with all of the people in my world, and be willing to share my story with someone who would like to listen. There is truly no greater feat in this world than lightening someone else's load even just a little.
For years after my mom's second diagnosis I was really scared of her ever getting cancer again. At the same time, I always reasoned with myself that the likelihood of a rediagnosis had to be pretty slim. Who in the world gets diagnosed with cancer three times in one lifetime? When I talked to my dad on the phone last year with news about my mom, I literally reverted back to that 15 almost 16 year old kid who heard that same news years before. I was paralyzed with fear. Unfortunately though, I remember thinking that the fear seemed a lot more suffocating than I ever remembered as a teenager. I felt more responsible. I felt more invested. I felt more real than I did when I was in high school. And I felt a sense of urgency that wasn't present in 2001. As an adult I didn't have the brooding teenager facade to hide behind. I had to handle this situation with a lot more grace and finesse than I ever felt accountable to as a kid. I also had a husband living in the same house as me, which was a whole other weird experience to naviagate.
After the initial shock of my mom's diagnosis, I started to realize that I needed to find some resources to help me deal with the onslaught of emotions that held hostage my everyday existence. I knew that I couldn't just bury my head in the sand. I couldn't listen to my music really loud in hopes that the lyrics would drown out the truth. I couldn't slam doors and constantly tell people I was "ok." I couldn't just write in angst-filled notebooks about the unfairness of this world and wave off the caring few who really wanted to listent to my thoughts. I resolved early on to try to handle this cancer trip with a little more maturity than I had in high school.
One of the lessons I have learned about myself as I have gotten older is that I am inexplicably drawn to tortured people. I am intrigued by others who have fought fights that seem so impossibly unfair. I like to talk to people who have climbed mountains in the darkest of worlds. I take comfort in knowing that someone, somewhere has had it harder than me and survived. Knowing that someone else has walked the same road I am travelling has always served as a light at the end of my long, dark tunnel.
I started researching books about daughters of mothers with cancer. I needed to hear someone else's story. I needed to know I wasn't alone. I determined that there are not a lot of books about women who have had important women in their life fight cancer. One night I did notice that Amazon suggested for me a book entitled The Rules of Inheritance by Claire Bidwell Smith. On a whim, I clicked on the link and read the description of what fulfilled my every longing in a book.
I finished reading The Rules of Inheritance in about two days. It is Smith's memoir about both of her parents being diagnosed with cancer within days of one another. I took extreme solace in the fact that she had it worse than me (I know. It's sick.). Even better, she had it worse than me and had lived to tell about it. She had lived to write about it even. Smith's book tells the story of her parents' diagnosis and death from various perspectives. She recalls her experience as a teenager just learning of her parents' diagnosis, and as an adult years later dealing with the fallout of her parents' battles with cancer. It was relatable. And poignant. And heartbreaking. And candid. And eerily similiar to the way I was feeling. Smith's memory of her teenage self dealing with cancer helped me let my younger self off the hook for some years of confused emotions. It made me wish that 16 year old Katy had read a book about someone else's experience with cancer. It made me appreciate my younger self for crawling through that year from hell with the grit and fight that I still possess today. Smith's memory of her twenty-something self dealing with cancer helped me know that my current thoughts were not as weird and twisted as I worried they were. And it let me feel okay for feeling so alone.
Naturally, the book is sad. And hard to read at points. It is so very real and authentic. It is the most spot-on portrayal of life with a parent with cancer that I have ever come in contact with. I sat and read and drank in Smith's words with a thirst that only a desperate person can possess. I cried and cried and cried. And I loved every single word of it. It was exactly what I needed at the time. When I finished the book, I literally turned to page one and started reading again.
Since finishing The Rules of Inheritance, I have continued reading memoirs about people overcoming insurmountable odds. Claire Bidwell Smith introduced me to a world of people who have survived. She allowed me to move beyond feeling sorry for myself and instead start accepting and even appreciating that this is my story. It cannot be changed or altered, but instead only lived.
I have not lost my mother to cancer. And most days now I don't give a lot of thought to ever losing my mom to cancer. I do feel a little better equipped to handle the loss of anything or anyone who is important to me. I appreciate that a story about someone else's life can be so helpful to a complete stranger. And I kind of want to be Claire Bidwell Smith's BFF. Since I can't really arrange that, I try to keep pressing forward, appreciate the time I have with all of the people in my world, and be willing to share my story with someone who would like to listen. There is truly no greater feat in this world than lightening someone else's load even just a little.
Monday, September 10, 2012
September 11th for Ninth Graders
I teach 14-year-olds. They were 3 when September 11th happened. 3? Seriously? 3? I asked my kid's what they know about that day. I got really vague answers about planes and Saddam Hussein. Then, as is par for the course in my neck of the woods, someone threw in an explanation blaming Barack Obama.
All I could do was shake my head. My kids were shocked that I was only 15 on September 11th. Sometimes teaching is not good for my self-esteem.
On my way home this afternoon, I started thinking about being a sophomore in high school in 2001. The main thing that really struck me as odd was how we were all informed about the happenings of September 11th primarily by a television. Every TV in the school was on throughout that day. No one sat behind a computer to get the most up to the minute updates. No one sat refreshing their Twitter. No one posted statuses on Facebook or photos to Instagram. There was still some small control on the information that reached people. The world I live in today is nothing like the world 11 years ago.
Sometimes I am glad that I am not a kid right now. No doubt I would love to go back and relive some of my time as a teenager. But only if I can go back to my time. When Facebook and Twitter were nonexistent. And you went to the office to use the phone during the day. And you listened to your teacher because there wasn't really anything else to do. When you wrote notes to each other and passed them during passing periods. When people talked behind your back instead of typing behind your back. When your mom ironed your pants because you were supposed to look nice for school. And when we didn't have cars so we had to twelve miles walk to school every morning...I know, I know, I tend to get carried away. It's the truth though.
I think life used to be easier. I realize I am not that old, but even in the time since I've graduated I feel like being alive is harder. People are held accountable every minute of every day because of a cell phone. No one knows how to be bored anymore because of the computers we carry around in our pockets. You can't get in a car and drive knowing that the answering machine will record any messages you might have. There's no escape from life anymore for Generation Z kids. They are constantly on-call and that is a crazy thing. We are creating a weird breed of people. And I either fortunately or unfortunately have a very small role in their development.
Sometimes I tell myself that if I ever have a child, I am going to work really hard to limit their exposure to technology. And then I realize it must be a losing battle. And then I take my birth control pill and go to bed. I'm just not there yet.
All I could do was shake my head. My kids were shocked that I was only 15 on September 11th. Sometimes teaching is not good for my self-esteem.
On my way home this afternoon, I started thinking about being a sophomore in high school in 2001. The main thing that really struck me as odd was how we were all informed about the happenings of September 11th primarily by a television. Every TV in the school was on throughout that day. No one sat behind a computer to get the most up to the minute updates. No one sat refreshing their Twitter. No one posted statuses on Facebook or photos to Instagram. There was still some small control on the information that reached people. The world I live in today is nothing like the world 11 years ago.
Sometimes I am glad that I am not a kid right now. No doubt I would love to go back and relive some of my time as a teenager. But only if I can go back to my time. When Facebook and Twitter were nonexistent. And you went to the office to use the phone during the day. And you listened to your teacher because there wasn't really anything else to do. When you wrote notes to each other and passed them during passing periods. When people talked behind your back instead of typing behind your back. When your mom ironed your pants because you were supposed to look nice for school. And when we didn't have cars so we had to twelve miles walk to school every morning...I know, I know, I tend to get carried away. It's the truth though.
I think life used to be easier. I realize I am not that old, but even in the time since I've graduated I feel like being alive is harder. People are held accountable every minute of every day because of a cell phone. No one knows how to be bored anymore because of the computers we carry around in our pockets. You can't get in a car and drive knowing that the answering machine will record any messages you might have. There's no escape from life anymore for Generation Z kids. They are constantly on-call and that is a crazy thing. We are creating a weird breed of people. And I either fortunately or unfortunately have a very small role in their development.
Sometimes I tell myself that if I ever have a child, I am going to work really hard to limit their exposure to technology. And then I realize it must be a losing battle. And then I take my birth control pill and go to bed. I'm just not there yet.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Hope Springs
Cody and I watched Hope Springs at the theater this past weekend. It's a movie about an older couple (Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones) who have lost the magic in their marriage. They visit a therapist (Steve Carrell) in a town called Hope Springs to try to find their way back to the way they were at the beginning of their lives together. At first, I didn't think much of our night at the movie. Cody wasn't too terribly interested in watching a movie about "old people", but he was a good sport nonetheless. By the end of our evening, Cody and I were both happy we had spent a couple of hours watching a movie in a theater that the average age had to be at least 70 years old. The more Cody and I talked about our night, the more we realized how our night at the movies was really a scientific study on the generational differences of people. Allow me to explain...
Cody and I got to the theater about 15 minutes before the movie was about to start. We never thought we would need to be there early, but were surprised at the number of people already in the theater. I should have known the oldsters would be early, seeing as they were already out way past their bedtime. I also heard numerous people remark on the price of "going to the show" these days. I am certain older people feel like our world is pretty much an alien planet in a lot of ways. An $8 movie ticket really is proposterous.
Once we sat down, I couldn't help but notice the woman behind me sucking on her teeth. I tried not to get too annoyed by it. It was definitely interesting background noise for the evening. Once the movie started, Cody and I were surprised at the incessant cell phones that rang throughout the entire night. We kept looking around with each ringing phone. No one even seemed remotely phased by the noise. I assume none of the moviegoers could actually hear the ringtones, or maybe old people have just accepted that phones ring everywhere these days. I don't think most old people even know how to put a phone on vibrate. My own parents insist on simply turning their phone completely off when they need it to be silent. It is exhausting.
Now, don't get me wrong. The ringing phones, teeth sucking, and "when I was young" talk certainly didn't dampen my movie night. I really enjoyed the movie and appreciated the overall message of the love story. I also had a lot of fun with the ever-ready laugh that the older movie watchers displayed throughout the night. It was like watching a movie with kids. Every line in the movie that was even remotely funny resulted in the entire theater in stitches. It was fun. It was how people should be when they get to spend a night at the movie. Older people just seem to be more appreciative of their life. It's something I wish I had more of.
As we were exiting the movie (very slowly by the way), I noticed that everyone seemed a little more at ease. There was no rushing to get out of the theater and there were lots of couples holding hands. As we walked toward the door, I overheard the woman in front of me tell the woman she had been sitting with that she wished "Jerry could have seen that show." I don't know why but I assumed Jerry was her husband. And naturally Jerry must have passed away recently. I guessed that maybe the woman was seeing a movie for the first time since her husband died. The friend with the woman didn't respond to the older woman's mention of Jerry. She simply took her hand in her own as they slowly walked down the steps of the theater.
So, what I assumed was a routine night at the movies ended up being quite the experience. As we drove home Saturday night, I realized that sometimes it's nice to be reminded to laugh a little easier and to hold hands with people you love and to have a little patience with people who have walked before you and to always put your phone on vibrate.
Cody and I got to the theater about 15 minutes before the movie was about to start. We never thought we would need to be there early, but were surprised at the number of people already in the theater. I should have known the oldsters would be early, seeing as they were already out way past their bedtime. I also heard numerous people remark on the price of "going to the show" these days. I am certain older people feel like our world is pretty much an alien planet in a lot of ways. An $8 movie ticket really is proposterous.
Once we sat down, I couldn't help but notice the woman behind me sucking on her teeth. I tried not to get too annoyed by it. It was definitely interesting background noise for the evening. Once the movie started, Cody and I were surprised at the incessant cell phones that rang throughout the entire night. We kept looking around with each ringing phone. No one even seemed remotely phased by the noise. I assume none of the moviegoers could actually hear the ringtones, or maybe old people have just accepted that phones ring everywhere these days. I don't think most old people even know how to put a phone on vibrate. My own parents insist on simply turning their phone completely off when they need it to be silent. It is exhausting.
Now, don't get me wrong. The ringing phones, teeth sucking, and "when I was young" talk certainly didn't dampen my movie night. I really enjoyed the movie and appreciated the overall message of the love story. I also had a lot of fun with the ever-ready laugh that the older movie watchers displayed throughout the night. It was like watching a movie with kids. Every line in the movie that was even remotely funny resulted in the entire theater in stitches. It was fun. It was how people should be when they get to spend a night at the movie. Older people just seem to be more appreciative of their life. It's something I wish I had more of.
As we were exiting the movie (very slowly by the way), I noticed that everyone seemed a little more at ease. There was no rushing to get out of the theater and there were lots of couples holding hands. As we walked toward the door, I overheard the woman in front of me tell the woman she had been sitting with that she wished "Jerry could have seen that show." I don't know why but I assumed Jerry was her husband. And naturally Jerry must have passed away recently. I guessed that maybe the woman was seeing a movie for the first time since her husband died. The friend with the woman didn't respond to the older woman's mention of Jerry. She simply took her hand in her own as they slowly walked down the steps of the theater.
So, what I assumed was a routine night at the movies ended up being quite the experience. As we drove home Saturday night, I realized that sometimes it's nice to be reminded to laugh a little easier and to hold hands with people you love and to have a little patience with people who have walked before you and to always put your phone on vibrate.
Monday, August 13, 2012
A Pity Party for Educators
Life as a teacher/coach for me is a bit hectic. I find myself fighting highs and lows of all sorts throughout the course of a school year and summer. Sure, summer is awesome. And time off for Spring Break and Christmas are pretty cool as well. However, I contend that the emotional despair I am forced to deal with every August as the new school year approaches may be worse than the time away from school is good. I know, I know. Those of you reading this who are non-educators are rolling your eyes. And I realize I should be thankful for the time off my job allows. But still, the return to school every August is like staring up the tallest mountain on God's green earth knowing that you have to climb that beast in the coming months. Not only that, but along your climb you will be forced to survive among some of the craziest predators this world has to offer (students and parents). I have determined that starting school is like running into a brick wall over and over again until the shock of the impact finally wears away. You go from floating in a pool on Wednesday afternoons in June to juggling 100 students needs and wants every single day in September. It's absolute craziness.
The silver lining that I must keep in mind is that eventually the trauma of a new school year dissipates. After you run into the brick wall of teaching enough times, you desensitize to the smell of teenagers and accept that you will have to repeat yourself no less than 20 times per day and get used to hearing 14 year olds try to read Shakespeare. You numb yourself to crazy parents and remind yourself that adolescents cannot be taken personally and remember how to eat lunch in 20 minutes and use the restroom in less than 2. And somewhere around November (or is it March?) you find yourself smiling at that really annoying kid in 6th period rather than wanting to curse at him and occasionally taking a deep breath instead of an anxious sigh when the first bell rings. I know that these things will happen. This is my fifth year of running into the brick wall and I have more confidence that the acceptance of impact will come sooner than later. Unfortunately though, I am currently rocking back and forth in the fetal position at the bottom of the education mountain and my eyesight is so cluttered with grades and textbooks and essays and and parent teacher conferences that I can't even see the summit.
When is Spring Break?
The silver lining that I must keep in mind is that eventually the trauma of a new school year dissipates. After you run into the brick wall of teaching enough times, you desensitize to the smell of teenagers and accept that you will have to repeat yourself no less than 20 times per day and get used to hearing 14 year olds try to read Shakespeare. You numb yourself to crazy parents and remind yourself that adolescents cannot be taken personally and remember how to eat lunch in 20 minutes and use the restroom in less than 2. And somewhere around November (or is it March?) you find yourself smiling at that really annoying kid in 6th period rather than wanting to curse at him and occasionally taking a deep breath instead of an anxious sigh when the first bell rings. I know that these things will happen. This is my fifth year of running into the brick wall and I have more confidence that the acceptance of impact will come sooner than later. Unfortunately though, I am currently rocking back and forth in the fetal position at the bottom of the education mountain and my eyesight is so cluttered with grades and textbooks and essays and and parent teacher conferences that I can't even see the summit.
When is Spring Break?
Friday, August 10, 2012
Catching Up
I was looking back at my blog and realized that it has almost been a year exactly since I bailed on writing. It has been a bit of a crazy 12 months, so I thought I would recap what was missed.
First of all, last August Cody and I bought a new house. It was a complete fluke of a purchase. We were not looking for a home to buy. We happened upon an open house and went into look “just for fun” and ended up making an offer and purchasing said home within a week. We then got to survive the moving process in the dead of August with me having just started back to school. It was crazy. It was stressful. However, I absolutely love our house. I’ve spent a lot of the past year remodeling stuff and have started to feel like it is really our home.
And no, we didn’t sell our first home. It is currently being rented by a really reliable couple that we hope continues to rent it until America’s economy does not suck so bad.. The good news is that for now our house(s) situation is under control.
The few months after we moved into our new house are pretty much a complete blur for me. I coach volleyball from August to the beginning of November. Last year, it pretty much took all I had to keep my head above water for that stretch of time. The past year has been different than most, because my mom was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer a little over a year ago. I have spent the last year sort of chained to the next set of test results or next trip to visit a doctor. The good news is that my mom is currently responding to treatment. It took literally almost a year for us to find a treatment that slowed the growth of the cancer. But we have found a solution for now. I am so grateful and happy. And I am so proud of my mom for enduring the past year with grace that is ever-present in times of struggle for her.
Besides new houses and life-altering battles with cancer, my life has been pretty calm here lately. This summer Cody and I went to the Dominican Republic for a week. I spent a lot of time soaking up days with nothing scheduled to do and time that I could spend with Cody and my family. This summer has been a bit of a relief from a year of pretty hard stuff for me. It has been a chance to recharge a bit and I am thankful for that.
I have figured out over the last year that there can be some good that comes out of a cancer diagnosis. I have started appreciating days that are good a lot more than I used to. I try not to worry about insignificant stuff near as much. And I have started identifying my mom’s cancer diagnosis as one of those things that is bound to make me a stronger and better person in the end. I have spent a lot of this year really trying to cope with my mom’s diagnosis rather than running away from it like I did when I was in high school. I have read books and blogs and met people who have done more than just survive their own battle with an illness or a battle of someone they love. Eventually I’ll get around to blogging about all of the interesting stuff that I have learned in the past year.
First of all, last August Cody and I bought a new house. It was a complete fluke of a purchase. We were not looking for a home to buy. We happened upon an open house and went into look “just for fun” and ended up making an offer and purchasing said home within a week. We then got to survive the moving process in the dead of August with me having just started back to school. It was crazy. It was stressful. However, I absolutely love our house. I’ve spent a lot of the past year remodeling stuff and have started to feel like it is really our home.
And no, we didn’t sell our first home. It is currently being rented by a really reliable couple that we hope continues to rent it until America’s economy does not suck so bad.
The few months after we moved into our new house are pretty much a complete blur for me. I coach volleyball from August to the beginning of November. Last year, it pretty much took all I had to keep my head above water for that stretch of time. The past year has been different than most, because my mom was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer a little over a year ago. I have spent the last year sort of chained to the next set of test results or next trip to visit a doctor. The good news is that my mom is currently responding to treatment. It took literally almost a year for us to find a treatment that slowed the growth of the cancer. But we have found a solution for now. I am so grateful and happy. And I am so proud of my mom for enduring the past year with grace that is ever-present in times of struggle for her.
Besides new houses and life-altering battles with cancer, my life has been pretty calm here lately. This summer Cody and I went to the Dominican Republic for a week. I spent a lot of time soaking up days with nothing scheduled to do and time that I could spend with Cody and my family. This summer has been a bit of a relief from a year of pretty hard stuff for me. It has been a chance to recharge a bit and I am thankful for that.
I have figured out over the last year that there can be some good that comes out of a cancer diagnosis. I have started appreciating days that are good a lot more than I used to. I try not to worry about insignificant stuff near as much. And I have started identifying my mom’s cancer diagnosis as one of those things that is bound to make me a stronger and better person in the end. I have spent a lot of this year really trying to cope with my mom’s diagnosis rather than running away from it like I did when I was in high school. I have read books and blogs and met people who have done more than just survive their own battle with an illness or a battle of someone they love. Eventually I’ll get around to blogging about all of the interesting stuff that I have learned in the past year.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
A Birthday Blog
One of my most vivid memories comes from the night before my 16th birthday. August 1, 2002 I spent the night with some of my good friends. It was summertime. We were at that really perfect age, teetering on finally being old enough to drive, old enough to be a little closer to free. I remember we went driving late that night. I was in the backseat. My two good friends in the front. I remember the windows were down. It was sticky outside. Middle of the night but still too hot. We were driving on the interstate. Air blowing so hard through the car that the music on the radio was barely audible. We weren’t talking. There was nothing to say. It was one of those times when you feel so real. I remember thinking in the back seat of that car that I would always remember that moment. I would always know the smell of that summer night, the hum of those tires, the feeling of those few minutes. I don’t know why, but I was right. I still remember that night. I remember being jealous of my two friends. I remember thinking that their life had to be easier to maneuver than my own. My mom was sick, really sick. My dad and my brother had battles of their own that they were fighting. I was stuck somewhere in the middle with an uneasiness that occasionally visits me to this day. I wanted to be young and free and 16. I wanted not to care about anything other than that night. That moment. With the wind and the heat and the car.
A couple of days ago I found myself in a really odd parallel to that night from a decade ago. On August 1, 2012 I was on a school bus on the way home from a volleyball camp with my girls from school. It was hot on the bus. The windows were down. The conversations from the kids behind me barely audible from the rumble of the bus on the interstate. As my left hand floated out the window of that school bus the other night I remembered my 16th birthday eve. I remembered that indelible moment in the car with my friends. I started trying to picture that kid. On a school bus full of 15, 16 year old girls, it was hard for me to imagine that I was ever that young. It was hard for me to understand that literally a decade ago I was their age. And as I sat on that hot bus I thought about how weird life is. I thought about how unrecognizable I would be to that kid in that car ten years ago. And yet how I am so very much that kid in that car. Still dealing with a mom with cancer. Still spending a lot of time in a gym. Still riding in cars on summer nights looking for those moments when you feel real. Alive. Relevant.
I don’t like birthdays. Don’t get me wrong, I am so very grateful for a chance to be on this earth. But every birthday seems to bring an inventory of my current life. An inventory that inevitably makes me feel like I am too far behind or too far ahead. An inventory that never makes me sit back and think that everything is just where it needs to be. 26 is a weird age. You’re more than half way to 50. Closer to 30 than 20. And a long way away from 16.
And yet, the other night when I turned around to tell my kids (for the second time) to quit encouraging truck drivers to blow their horn at our bus, the faces that stared back at me were not that far from my own. In those kids eyes I saw myself a decade ago and a little bit of my almost 26 year old self. I resolved on that bus to make 26 a little easier than 25 was. I resolved to be a little more patient with my kids at school. I resolved to remember that everyone is fighting a battle (including myself). I resolved to be better at life than I was at 16 because in an entire decade of living I am bound to have figured something out. I resolved to be more grateful. More at ease. More loving. And more real. To look for those moments in life when the wind blows through the windows of a car and the struggles that weigh you down are a little less heavy for a few minutes. Still there, but a little lighter. This I will do as a 26 year old.
And thus, I decided I should start writing again. Something about writing this silly blog makes things in my life make a little more sense. And a decade from now the thoughts of my 26 year old self will most likely be as funny as my 16 year old self is to me today. And no, I’m not pregnant. The last time I started a blog I was getting married. I have no life-altering announcement as of now. However, can you imagine the analysis that will take place if I am ever harboring a small human inside of me? Put your seat belts on folks. I’m back in the blog saddle!
A couple of days ago I found myself in a really odd parallel to that night from a decade ago. On August 1, 2012 I was on a school bus on the way home from a volleyball camp with my girls from school. It was hot on the bus. The windows were down. The conversations from the kids behind me barely audible from the rumble of the bus on the interstate. As my left hand floated out the window of that school bus the other night I remembered my 16th birthday eve. I remembered that indelible moment in the car with my friends. I started trying to picture that kid. On a school bus full of 15, 16 year old girls, it was hard for me to imagine that I was ever that young. It was hard for me to understand that literally a decade ago I was their age. And as I sat on that hot bus I thought about how weird life is. I thought about how unrecognizable I would be to that kid in that car ten years ago. And yet how I am so very much that kid in that car. Still dealing with a mom with cancer. Still spending a lot of time in a gym. Still riding in cars on summer nights looking for those moments when you feel real. Alive. Relevant.
I don’t like birthdays. Don’t get me wrong, I am so very grateful for a chance to be on this earth. But every birthday seems to bring an inventory of my current life. An inventory that inevitably makes me feel like I am too far behind or too far ahead. An inventory that never makes me sit back and think that everything is just where it needs to be. 26 is a weird age. You’re more than half way to 50. Closer to 30 than 20. And a long way away from 16.
And yet, the other night when I turned around to tell my kids (for the second time) to quit encouraging truck drivers to blow their horn at our bus, the faces that stared back at me were not that far from my own. In those kids eyes I saw myself a decade ago and a little bit of my almost 26 year old self. I resolved on that bus to make 26 a little easier than 25 was. I resolved to be a little more patient with my kids at school. I resolved to remember that everyone is fighting a battle (including myself). I resolved to be better at life than I was at 16 because in an entire decade of living I am bound to have figured something out. I resolved to be more grateful. More at ease. More loving. And more real. To look for those moments in life when the wind blows through the windows of a car and the struggles that weigh you down are a little less heavy for a few minutes. Still there, but a little lighter. This I will do as a 26 year old.
And thus, I decided I should start writing again. Something about writing this silly blog makes things in my life make a little more sense. And a decade from now the thoughts of my 26 year old self will most likely be as funny as my 16 year old self is to me today. And no, I’m not pregnant. The last time I started a blog I was getting married. I have no life-altering announcement as of now. However, can you imagine the analysis that will take place if I am ever harboring a small human inside of me? Put your seat belts on folks. I’m back in the blog saddle!
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