Act My Age

I was standing in the aisle at Sheetz, waiting to buy my hot dogs, hefting my ginormous jug o' Galliker's iced tea when I had an epiphany. I will never be a dancer nor learn how to dance.

(For those of you who know me personally, I'll wait for you to stop laughing at the thought of me as a dancer.)

Done? Not yet.

Okay, on with the blog.

I realized that I, a 'fluffy', 30'ish year old white woman would never be able to 'jate or pas de burre' with any skill. (I can spell 'em, I just can't do them.)

My epiphany was two fold: #1-there are things I now know I will never do in my lifetime, #2-I am close to middle aged.

#2 first (blogger prerogative). I am of an age that if I double it, I am close to when I might be near the end of my life. This is based on the average life span of women of 77.8 years. That means I am now middle aged. The problem? I don't feel like I am middle aged.

I feel like the 19 year old traveling from Berlin, Germany to a state college in a town with only 1 stop light. Unsure, excited, with endless opportunities and challenges ahead. Part two of the problem-I ain't 19...not even close.

#1 Dancing isn't the only thing I know, miracles notwithstanding, I probably will not do. If I don't get on with it, I will not write a book/screenplay/poem/song. I'll not learn how to roller skate/ice skate.

This epiphany makes me want to figure out how I really do feel. How to walk out this maturity and make the most of the time I have left. I know, fatalistic to be sure, but also realistic. I want to do things only dreamed of, to walk out journeys only whispered about in prayer, to be who I was created to be.

I need to learn to act my age. Whatever that means.




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Random Blogginess

Laundry

You know you are chugging through some serious laundrage when you have a load of wet stuff waiting on the dryer while another load washes. Oh, to have one of those ginormous washers/dryers like in the commercials. Some day.

Smelly Superb Teens

I became a high school English teacher on some misguided notion that I could change the world by teaching poor kids how to read. I did an 'urban' student teaching experience (the toughest choice I could have made at my little state school). I drove kids home so they wouldn't get in a fight with their gangs. I took in a kid to class who was recently parolled and still had a few months before he turned 21 and phased out of school. I meowed with a 300 pound girl when the class got too tough (she was one of the first of the 'crack babies'; that is children born to crack addicted mothers). That particular young lady had a habit of becoming a cat when times got tough. I, in my Laura Ingalls dress (yes, it had lace on the collar) would dutifully sit on the floor with her and meow until she was ready to read again.

Quickly, the system, the union, seniority, Vice-Principal antagonism and standardized testing ground out all idealism. It was replaced with a resignation to do what I could. If told no, there was no money, I would write the grant and get the money myself. I did exactly what I was directed to in the ubiquitous 'scope and sequencing chart of objectives and outcomes' just in my own way. Then Columbine happened.

I was Mama Ro to the same kind of kids who shot up their school. My classroom was the one the kids came to when they wanted to "f*ck up" another kid. My room, and I, were their haven. Once, when the crazy Vice Principal yelled at me (for the hundredth time) in front of my class, a young man offered to go to his truck, get his gun and take care of things for me. Things had definitely changed in my teaching world.

I left. I worked for one of the worst school systems in the country, DC Public Schools. I got away from directly dealing with kids. Until now.

I just chaperoned a group of 12 smelly, rude, loud, stupendously gifted and wonderful teens to a Christian Youth Conference. ETE Metamorphosis. (Empowering The Extreme).

I watched young people throw away years of pain, oppression and silence. They raged through the worship at their circumstance, much out of the unfortunateness they were born to. I saw some smile, for the first time in a long time.

I fell in love, again. I fell in love with the potential, the power, the rawness of adolescence. (Though I did not love the smell in the boys van...ew.).

We'll see where this love will take me and them.

Big Bertha

I am on a pseudo-health kick. Pseudo, in that, I am exercising but haven't significantly changed my eating habits. I know, not a recipe for success. I just want to make one small change at a time.

I've decided to adopt Ruby's term for the 'junk in my trunk'. Henceforth, it will be called Bertha. My son used less femininely friendly terms when discussing my rear self. He told his Pap that while he had a skinny backside that his mommy had a 'gigantic backside'. Thanks Bug. Really. Thanks.

I said something similar to my mother when I was a bit older than my son. I asked my mom how her 'big butt' fit on the little seat of the bicycles we were riding. She cried, yelled and didn't talk to me for days.

When my life came full circle and I heard my son's comment, I laughed. I laughed because it's true...hold on...gotta finish the last bite of this chocolate no-bake cookie....okay, now I can finish this blog. I laughed because it's true and because nothing could keep me from talking to my little guy, even a little pain.

Extreme Internal Makeover Edition

I ended up facilitating/preaching/teaching a session to my entire Wednesday bible study on sexual restoration. Take the minute you need to digest that then I'll blog on. You good? K.

After that study, I got to talk and pray with some dear friends who are also, conveniently, my Pastors. When we prayed (as common as ordering dessert when we have a night out together) they shared something I'll chew on for the next coupla weeks. They said that I was in the middle of a quick "Extreme Internal Makeover Edition" in my heart, mind and spirit. They said soon I'll say, "Move that bus!" and won't believe the awesomeness of who I will be.

I've blogged about my struggles to find the 'authentic' me underneath layers of depression, masking and other yuckiness. I know things are changing at a warp speed pace. I can't wait to see what's behind the bus.




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Random Bits

It's early. The scent of BBQ pulled pork wafts from the crock pot. On my printer is a pile of seeds. I brace myself to check on the baby to confirm what I already know, he has pink eye. It's another random day in my life.

My almost six year old has lost his first tooth. I cried. He looked at me funnily. He comforted me. With this indisputable confirmation of babyhood gone bye bye, I keep watching him. There are times when I see his father in his walk. I see his Uncles in his attitude. And I see God in his uniqueness. I also see red when he is sassy and picks on his Pap, but that's for another blog.

I put his tooth in a little box that looks like a jewel (a random keepsake from the kids toy box). Somehow, in years to come, I'll come across that box, sit on the edge of the bed and have a little mist.

The baby is awake. Gotta go clean some eye goo and coax in some drops. More later.




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