Heads Up Seven Up

What started as a potentially easy way to end the one day work week this week turned into a full on guffaw for me. (Yes, we had two days off for a mid-Winter break and then two “snow” days that happened back to back after the break. Thus, a one day work week.)

It was 3:17 p.m.  We had cranked out a pile of work yesterday in Kindergarten. School ends at 3:30.  Why not teach these five and six year olds how to play the favored “Heads Up Seven Up” game that I loved playing when I was in Grade Two back in the day?  Yes. Yes.  Good idea!

This soon turned out to be a less than stellar idea.  I carefully selected 7 kids to stomp up to the front of the room.  I told the steps in chronological detail and checked for understanding. (Madeline Hunter would be so pleased.) Seven heads bobbed up and down when I asked if they knew what to do.  Then I turned my direction giving to the sea of Kindergarteners on the floor waiting to be “tapped” on the head.  Good. Good!  Everyone seemed ready for the BIG game!  I glanced at the clock (3:20 p.m.) Man, I am getting better all the time. I can give the hybrid version of directions in lickety-split time.  I tell myself in a congratulatory voice inside of my head,“You are amazing.”

The sea of Kindergarteners scurry to their tables and put their heads down anxiously awaiting one of the 7 chosen peers to tap them.  When all 7 return from the sea of peers and I say, “Heads Up!  Seven Up!” 12 kids stood up.  Hmmmm…I must not have been so clear on the “only tap ONE person” direction.

“Do OVER!” – After a more detailed re-explanation of the game it was now 3:22 p.m. and my mind was all set that we would make it one full round in this new game now.

The 7 chosen ones stomped out into the sea of their peers who were head down at their table waiting to be picked.  This time one of my table friends popped his head up when he got tapped and yelled, “I SAW YOU TAP ME!  I AM GONNA CALL YOU!” – Ahhh… Not how the game goes. (Quick one on one tutorial while the other remaining 6 chosen tap someone else and the original tapper re-selects someone.)

3:25 – The 7 chosen are back at the front. This time only 9 kids stand up when given the “Heads Up, Seven Up!” directive.  This is called progress.  So, we start by having kids guess who tapped them one at a time.  A girl suspects she is tapped by the tall boy at the end.  “Yep!”  They switch spots.  He sits down in her seat.  She comes to join the Chosen Tappers.  We get to the end of the line and the last person tapped guesses who tapped them and then I hear from the tall boy who just sat down because he was guessed to have tapped the girl, “No, I tapped you!” – Ahhh, Pumpkin, How many peeps did you tap?”  His reply, “Three!” – Oh, boy.  More directions being given and re-teaching at an alarming rate (Glancing at the clock and it is not 3:27 p.m.

Just enough time to try this game one more round and I hear sobbing from the farthest table.  I look up and one girl is standing and shouts out, “I have never been picked yet!” – Oh……… I know the feeling.  You get used to it.  This is what I am thinking in my head but I don’t say it.

Before I know it; 3:30 and our impromptu game comes to a screeching halt.  We may have to revisit this one with a LARGE poster showing the steps.  Nothing, NO, NOTHING, is ever simple in Kindergarten......... but then I suppose that is really why I like it so much.

A mechanic I am NOT~

A mechanic I am not.  This fact was driven home today in more ways than one.

I stomped out to the car to go to the bank.  (Sometimes you need to check on your C notes)  As I turned the engine over a light began blinking on the dash which accompanied a persistent tone that filled the cabin of the car.  The instant the car gives negative feedback, as it was this morning; I am tumbled into a mental state of fear.  Not because I think the car might blow up, but because it means I might have to face the mechanics at the dealership.  In itself it seems like nothing to be worried about, right?  Wrong.  Those guys are a lot smarter than I am and I always assume I am being taken for a proverbial ride when I push the car in for service.

I reached for the glove compartment to find the manual so I could first look up what the meaning of this blinking and chiming light meant. I then remembered that I moved the manual to the trunk in an effort to make more room for the CD’s and other paraphernalia that I need when I operate the car. (i.e. – gum, gloves, notepads, pens, etc.)

Oh, I forgot to say that we got a dusting of snow here in Seattle last night and  the temps dipped to below freezing.  Thus, the trunk of the car was frozen shut. (Irritation level on the rise).  I stood out in the cold and banged on the trunk of the car to try and break it free from the icy hold.  Success!  Or, near success as I pulled with all of my might to open that hinged compartment.  Something else that I failed to tell you about was that when I bought this car I didn’t bother to check the trunk.  The trunk hinges have some sort of “malfunction”.  They rarely work.  You have to put your foot on the bumper and pull up as hard as you can to get the thing to open.  The situation is exacerbated when the temps dip low.  So, you can imagine what type of effort was necessary to get that bad boy open to access the repositioned car manual. (Irritation at a near all time high)

After much effort I finally had that thing and was flicking through it trying to find the hieroglyphics page that showed the symbols that blink on the dash.  Bingo!  I found the bouncing thermometer in the book.  Apparently it means that the coolant level is too low.  No problem.  We can zip up to the auto supply store and get some.  Well, upon further research wouldn’t you know that Audi and Volkswagen require a “special” formula of coolant that can only, you guessed it, be procured at a licensed Audi or Volkswagen dealership.  The situation was testing my limits and at 10:00 in the morning.  Today was sure to be a barn burner.

I stomped back into the house and fired up the computer to locate the nearest “authorized” dealer.  I phoned.  Good news they had what I needed in stock.  When I found out it cost $24 a gallon I wondered if it was laced with gold.  It wasn’t. 

So, off I go to the dealership with my $24 in hand.  The bank and my C notes would have to wait. The whole drive I was rehearsing what I would say at the desk so that I wouldn’t get talked into a “computer analysis” to be sure that it was, in fact, the coolant that was low and that they didn’t somehow lead me to believe that perhaps the sensor was malfunctioning or that maybe I just needed a new engine.  Nope, I wasn’t going to be talked into anything.  After the purchase I was almost home when I pulled up close to a car in front of me at the light.  I wish I wouldn’t have noticed what I did, but I couldn’t help it.  Only one bright light shone on the bumper of the car in front of me.  Mmmmm Hmmmm.  The passenger side daytime running lamp was burned out.  Have you ever tried to put in a new one of these bulbs in these cars that were made after the year 2000?  No picnic, kids.  So, now I need to head out in search of the overpriced headlamp.  Oh, and did you know you need to wear a glove when you change it?  Not because they want to make the challenge of actually getting an adult sized hand in the small opening allowed for the change, but because the oil in your skin can somehow render the lamp useless.  I have fumbled and banged around for thirty minutes in previous sessions when trying to change the headlamp on that car.

Maybe it is time to throw in the towel and just get a new car already. 

Cell Phones, Ferry Boats & Wine

The water isn’t my favorite place to spend time, though I do like a good jet ski.  Boats, ferries, swimming, skiing…..not my favorite.  Yesterday I had the “opportunity” to ride a ferry from Larkspur to downtown San Francisco.  I was taken aback by the interior of this ferry.  (It must have been assembled in the 60’s with no updates since.) Walking on board was like taking a step back in time.  The thing looked like it had been hosed down with left over baby blue paint. Instantly the condition of the interior of the boat gave way to me wondering about how sea worthy she might be. Visions of the not so distant ferry boat crashes in New York City danced in my head.  Would we be the next national disaster?  Diesel fumes permeated the cabin.  As I carefully surveyed each nook and cranny of this boat, what I was sure to be turn of the century machinery, my attention was diverted to an opportunity to make fun of someone right in front of me. I love those kinds of opportunities.  They are of particular value when your concern for safety is heightened.  It takes your mind off of the present danger.

In stormed what I quickly surmised to be a husband and wife of their early 60’s.  Their accent indicated they were perhaps from Germany.  Mama had a paper cup in her right hand.  Papa had an identical paper cup.  Both had on darkening sun glasses as they stumbled to a seat. Mama wanted the front two seats by the window.  She pointed and papa spat out, “Dose are too crooked.” – The seats at the front of the boat were at an angle on the sides by the window and whomever sits by the window has far less room than anyone who doesn’t.  I knew in an instant I had some on-board entertainment unfolding before me as Papa plopped down in the seat across the aisle from his bride.

Mama: (Now on her cell phone.)“Ve are on ‘da boat.  Ve got ‘da Bloddy Mary’s.  I got ‘da vorst hang over.” – (Whoever was on the other end of the phone was getting every detail, as was I and I loved it! The more other people reveal about themselves the more I can evaluate how screwed up, or not, that I really am.  Is it a surprise that I often rule that I am not as crazy as I once though based on the revealing of said strangers? But isn’t that what we all do?  We evaluate how we relate to others to determine where we stand. You might not think you do, but we all do.)

Papa: Though he wasn’t talking on the phone he concurred, “Yah, Yah.”

Mama: Handing the phone to Papa. “Here you talk to ‘dem.”

Papa: “ That vas’ sum party last night.  How many bottles did ‘ve have?”… (long pause)  “68 plus 4 Magnums!!!!   You young kids can go all night.   ‘Ve can’t.  I vent to bed at ten o’clock.”   (Mama was nodding her head in amazement at the total of bottles and Magnums. – What exactly were these Magnums?  Could it be what I thought they were?  Or, was this simply a term for some other type of alcohol. SURELY it was a type of alcohol  Please tell me these seniors weren’t doing what I thought they were doing.)

Now all of this was being said at a level that allowed any listener within 200 yards a clear understanding.

Papa: “’Ve had an extra key.  It ‘vas is in ‘da car.  Did I give you ‘da extra key last night?”

Mama: “Yes, ‘Ve had an extra key!” (This was said as if she were the one on the phone.  Who exactly was she saying it for? Was it simply moral support for Papa to indicate that he wasn't imaginging they had second key, but that the key is in fact now missing.)

Is it possible that this 60’s + Saturday night bash turned into a Key Party?  I mean, there was the reference to Magnums and to exchanging keys and that the young kids could go all night. Oh, surely not.  I looked at my own seat mates with a look of wonder and fascination as all three of us burst into laughter.  Clearly we were all wondering the same thing.  Papa kept giving details on how to get the missing key that was maybe still in the car.

Finally, a passenger on the ferry pointed to the sign that hung over Papa and Mama that read, “This is a Voluntary No Cell Phone Use Area.) – Mama quick grabbed the phone and walked 12 yards back outside of the cabin and stood on the landing to continue her conversation with whoever was on the other end who clearly had been part of the Magnum/Key Party last night.  I soon lost all interest in the highly fascinating life of these seniors as I couldn’t figure out if the sign that said “Voluntary No Cell Phone Use Area” meant that you had the option to voluntarily not use your cell phone and you could still talk on one if you wanted to, or if it meant that by being in this cabin you were agreeing to not use your cell phone.  Therein lies the dilemma: To be a schmuck or not?

Finally after the call ended Mama came back to papa. And so began the long discussion about the types of wine they had last night.  A fair bit of time was spent talking about Merlot.  Mama asked, “How much ‘vas ‘dat bottle ‘ve had?”

Papa: “$850.00  ‘I had four of ‘dose.” (Four of those!?!?  Four glasses of that wine or four bottles? – I would have assumed he meant four glasses but that verdict soon came into question as I heard Mama’s response.”

Mama: “Mmmm, Yah, ‘Dose ‘ver good.”

$850.00 for a bottle of wine?  What are we, Royalty?   I liked these two and secretly hoped they were going to the places we were going so I could glean more from them on how to live the high life, but alas as we disembarked the tinker-toy boat at the San Francisco Ferry terminal I bid farewell to them and began the day with my friends.

Airports and I

Sometimes it simply hits you on an idle Saturday afternoon.  “It”  being where you are and how far you have come.  Other times the proverbial “it” is how far you yet have to go.   Airports always have this effect on me.  (I am sitting in an airport as I write this.)

  Maybe it is all of the hurrying up to wait that brings on this personal time to reflect on your life.  Whatever the case, I am sitting here at Gate A8 looking out the window on the tarmac remembering past experiences and evaluating if I have really come all that far or if I am only imagining growth.  It can be difficult, though……. Difficult to reflect on the past, that is, with so many rich opportunities to judge in the present.  Take for example the man who just walked by and didn’t notice me.  He had his hand way up in his crack trying to get his skivvies out.  He wasn’t as sly as he thought he was.  I was just out of his line of vision, but he was fully within mine.  Do I thank him for reminding me that we all are vulnerable from time to time or just pretend I would never do anything like that?

Then it hits me…..How many times have I thought I was out of sight when acting in ways that were terribly inappropriate and even embarrassing?  Dare I say hundreds or even thousands?  Instantly I re-evaluate how far I have really come as I alluded to in the opening of this post. Sometimes I did things in such an outlandish way with no effort to conceal them.  For example,  Take the time I made a huge scene at the Volvo dealer when the new car I bought wasn’t running like it was new and I was irritated beyond belief.  I quickly calm myself writing this lapse in better judgment off as an unfortunate side effect of my age (twenty-eight at the time).  Surely most twenty-eight year olds are ego centric and pound on the counter at the service station when their brand new car sputters and spews black smoke, don’t they?

I also sit here and consider the countless times I have blown people off mid-sentence not fully listening to what they have to say because I had already made up my mind that I was right and they simply weren’t at a place to recognize it yet.  That one isn’t as easily attributed to age, as it is still a near every day experience for me in my late thirties.

So, maybe the issue isn’t about identifying how far you have come or how far you have yet to go.  Maybe it is simply about being mindful of what your weaknesses are and at the very least attempting to catch yourself the next time you start down the road with some of this less than stellar behavior.  Yes, Yes, that’s what it is. (I convince myself of this in a Bat-Man minute).  So, As I close this post I am head strong that I will at the very least make an effort to stop myself when I employ some of these selfish behaviors that have been around for quite some time.  Let’s see how it goes.  

Oh, Good news!  Someone just walked by wearing a pink polka dot skirt, winter boots, a parka and baseball cap.  – I can’t give up making fun of people… yet. That is simply beyond the scope of what is reasonable to expect from someone like me just yet….. That will be when I am 40 and beyond.  So……. just a few more years to cram in as much fun making as possible.  Gotta go- Gotta find out if the Polka Dot Princess will be on my flight.

What to Say~

The following phrases, words and replies are common place for anyone who works with young children.  I find myself using them on a near daily basis.  Of course this list is not all inclusive.  Feel free to add any you use in the comment section.

• What? (Usually said to buy some time to formulate a response to the question being asked)
• Maybe (Translation: No)
• Kissing needs to stay in your own mouth. (The nice way of saying, “Please don’t kiss anyone. I don’t want any phone calls from parents of the kids you are kissing at school.)
• You Who? – I am over here. (Typically spoken when it feels like few, if any, five year olds are actually listening to you.)
• Did you _________?
• Let me think about it. (Translation: No)
• We are all waiting for you. (The nice way of saying, Hurry Up!)
• What did I tell you when you asked me this question five minutes ago? (A nice way of letting a five year old you are slightly frustrated with the non-stop asking of the same question though slightly re-worded five different ways with the hope that you will somehow cave and give in.)
• Would you like it if… (insert undesirable behavior that the child perpetrated on another here)
• We are keeping our shoes on in case there is a fire. Can also be issued as a question, “Where are your shoes?”
• Say, “Excuse me.” (This is a prompt for when someone burps, passes gas, knocks someone over, drops something on someone’s foot, etc.)
• Please raise your hand if you have something to say when we are in a group. (Daily, multiple times daily, maybe even thirty times in an hour.)
• I know you want a turn. (Can be used as validation when you have no other response to offer that will sooth the child who is distraught over not having a turn yet.)
• Did you give him/her a turn? (Typically issued to the person who is witholding a turn to the person you said "I know you want a turn" to above.)
• Did you take it? (usually issued when there is a conflict over who gets to use the blue pencil, pink eraser, building block or any other desired item.)
• What would your mom or dad say if I called them and asked if this was true? (This one is usually met with big eyes and a quickly re-defined understanding of the event in question)
• Please get a Kleenex ™ (The nice way of saying, “Stop picking your nose and eating it.”
• Wash your hands, please. (This is said when someone has their hands down their pants – either front or back)

The Loogie~

Tears poured from the eyes of one Kindergarten student who stomped up to my desk spewing, “He spit in my eye!” – I couldn’t tell at first if the tears were simply a result of his eye weeping to rid itself of the foreign loogie or if he was expelling frustration in a full on cry.  Two seconds later I reached a conclusion as his bottom lip quivered and face turned to a deep scarlet color.

I whipped on my proverbial Investigation hat and summonsed the accused perpetrator to my desk for an inquisition. The look on his face must have indicated what the look on my face was.  He was somber, struck with an instant pale-faced fear and slowly trotted to my throne (a.k.a – my desk)

“Do you know why I want to see you?”

Student: “No.”   (Now why is it that when you ask a child something like this .....Something you know  they know that you know about, such as the alleged intentional loogie incident, that they still deny any knowledge of what is unfolding in front of them? – Oh yah, it’s that thing called human nature.)

Me: “Your table mate says you spat in his eye.”

Student:  Long silence (TRANSLATION: “I did.”)

Me: - Getting braver in my old age, “Are you thinking up a lie right now?”

Student:  Shakes head left to right.

Me: “Is it true? Did you spit in his eye?”

Student:  Steeling a glance at the accuser first then nodding says, “Mmm Hmmm. – But it must have just accidently got in there when I was talking.  It just flew out or somethin’.”

And there in lies the dilemma; two people who experienced the same incident, but with very different perspectives on the forces behind how it came to be.  I was at a crossroads.  Do I exert my power and simply rule that the accused spitter is in fact lying, or do I grant the benefit of the doubt until a formal jury can weigh in on the situation? (i.e. – My colleagues across the hall)

The jury is still out as I haven’t had a chance to confer with my colleagues.  I anticipate court will resume tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.

Going UP? No....Going Down~

I have a friend.  I know it may be hard to imagine, but I do have a friend.  Target.  My friend is Target.  They have everything at that place.  You can swoop in and gather everything you need to survive this life and stomp out with your arms full of life sustaining materials.  They have food stuffs, clothes, household items and best of all they have a snack bar. Food is the cornerstone of my life.  I am partial to the GIANT pretzels with pebble sized salt on top. 

One time my friend, Target, failed me.  It was a failure of such gargantuan proportion that I haven’t really ever forgiven her.  Mmm Hmmm..  The Target near my home is a Double Decker Target. (That’s how they do it in the big city.)  There is a set of escalators in the middle of the store.  So you can glide up from electronics to the household items and back down for the toy department. 

One afternoon I was just about to go down on the escalator with a few things in my arms as I managed the unthinkable.  My clodhoppers got hung up somewhere between step one and three and I managed a less than un-noticeable “tumble” down the escalator.  This was no ordinary tumble.  This was grandiose.  The articles in my arms flew out like projectile vomit and over the side railing crashing down on the floor below me.  We were lucky nobody was on the receiving end of these airborne wonders.  This “fireworks” like display was coupled with much guffaw and grunting noise as I went head over heels down the moving steps.  Why would I be laughing?  The best conclusion I can come to is that I laugh when I don’t want people to be concerned about something that is either highly embarrassing or highly uncomfortable.  These both apply here. I was cognizant enough to hear the fabric on my khakis rip on the way down.

After coming to a complete and final stop on the lower level I realized how embarrassing it is in your late thirties to be so clumsy that you could be mistaken for a child.  With a bruised ego I gathered the bag of corn chips that has sprung a leak allowing the newly shaped flakes of corn chips to dribble out.  I them looked for a brief moment for the box of toothpaste that had been airborne not more than thirty seconds before. It had gone “missing” during the tumble. – Nowhere to be found.  About this time I realized that I hadn’t surveyed the damage to myself.  Mmm Hmmm.  It gets better.

My leg had a few cuts with freshly emerging blood, but the kicker was that my skivvies were in full view from the rear because of my newly re-designed khakis which had sprung a leak as the rear pocket had been ripped off.  Where was it?  The pocket and part of my khakis were in the teeth at the bottom of the escalator.  Let me just tell you people something.  The escalator was hungry that day.  It wasted no time making threads out of my pocket.

With the latest development of my skivvies clad rump showing I placed one hand over the hole and walked/limped to the car.

The lesson here?  Hold the hand rail.

What are those Holes?

Several years ago I taught grade one.  Two boys were working on the laptop at my desk.  I was swooping around the room providing support and stopped to check in with them.  One said, "Hey, what are those holes in your face?"

Now, we all know I am not the brightest bulb so I answered, "My nose holes?"

Laughter erupts from the two boys who have since moved any attention from the computer to me since I talked about my "nose holes".  (Any time you can get your teacher to talk about anything other than work you have succeeded as a child) - Their laughter, of course, drew the attention of passersby. 

"No, not those holes.  THOSE holes," said combined with pointing to my cheeks.

Me: "What holes?" (said while feeling my face trying to find the said holes.)

"Those things in your face, the bumps, the holes, you know," - said with exasperation as they tired of how dumb I apparently am.

Me: "These?" pointing to my dimples.

"Yeah. What are those?"

...And so began the impromptu human body lesson on dimples.

My dimples have long been a topic of discussion.  On occasion someone will say, "You have cute dimples." While it is nice to receive compliments, as a grown adult being complimented on your dimples by strangers or people you don't know well always left me feeling slightly uncomfortable.  (I suppose that is because I am notorious for having up walls not letting people in- Accepting compliments might signal that its OK to get to know me.)

Too bad the dimples don't charm everyone, eh?

My Greatest Fear

 My greatest fear is vulnerability.

Therapy: Tick…Tick…Tick… The small clock on the end table next to me made that annoying  sound indicating that time was passing.  It is a reminder that each second costs 0.036 cents to tell someone my troubles.  Rather, the cost to sit in silence while I muster the courage to spill out my deepest experiences and secrets that I have kept in a tomb deep inside my core for years.  With each tick my level of resentment and frustration seem to creep up toward a simmer which will inevitably explode into a rolling boil before the fifty minute hour is over.  My hands find one another during this silence so my thumbs can rub the nail on one another as I try to divert from her eyes which are staring holes into my forehead.  The woman I pay $110.00 an hour, that is if you can call fifty minutes an “hour”, to listen to me repeat each week the things I wrestle with. I am selfish.  I am afraid, I am unwilling to give in, to compromise or to let go.  Who even knows what it means to “let go”? 

So, the clock continues to tick its money meter and I am only three minutes into the session.  In an effort to ditch the things I really need to discuss in therapy I instead say, “This is the first time I sat in the waiting room with other people out there.  I didn’t like it.”  (My thinking here is that I can lead her astray and we can talk about something that was bothersome, but nothing that is unbearable like all of the deep secrets I have.) She has seen all of my patterns of behavior during previous sessions.  She knows this is what I do, whether subconsciously or with intent, and gives it no attention.  Instead she nods and stares at me, waiting for me to initiate a conversation that really matters. I hate that about her.

 Inside I feel a lump welling in my throat.  I know the reason I sought out therapy was to finally be free of the things that have me chained in this mental prison.  I need to just dump out the stories of my recent and long ago past that are haunting me.  So, why do I sit in silence playing these games that cost .036 cents per second?  I now know it is because I am afraid she will judge me.  I am afraid there won’t be acceptance or worse that the acceptance will be artificial because of the role she plays.  She is, after all, a counselor.  Counselors have to remain neutral in the service they provide or they would be rendered unethical. Wouldn't they?  

So, the real challenge becomes figuring out if she is demonstrating real concern and care or if it is manufactured.  I spend at least two thirds of my “hour” trying to take her pulse to see how we are relating so that if, some day, I wanted to tell her the deepest secrets I’d know with crystal clear certainty that she would genuinely care.  I have no proof that she doesn’t.  I lack trust. My issue with trust isn’t just with her.  It is with.... well…everyone.  If you fail me once you are cut off from the hope of ever being trusted again.  The pitfall with this rigorous standard is that everyone fails you at least once. 

That lump I mentioned earlier grows.  It feels like a kidney stone does when you are passing it, only as if it is the size of a golf ball and it’s in my neck.  With much regret I feel my eyes get heavy and my vision starts to cloud.  A single tear rolls down my cheek, then another.  The stream begins and I sit there staring at the floor and the wall.  I can’t look at her.  I can only imagine what she might be thinking.  I imagine she is thinking that this man who stands 6’6” tall and weighs in at 240 pounds is a big fat cry baby.  Though this is the first time I have cried in front of her in the six months I have been coming to her office, I am sure her impression is one of weakness and femininity.  My lip quivers and I stare aimlessly in every direction that she isn’t. She offers the following, “You look sad.”  I say nothing and only nod for fear that I’ll explode into a full-on sob.  (Boys don't cry and certainly men don't  Well, that would only have merit if I were a real man.)

There is more silence as the tears continue to roll and drip off of my chin onto my hands, which are oddly enough still examining each other’s nails.  I’m there at a jumping off point where it would make such wise sense to leap into my past and my secrets. Pour them out for her on the coffee table that is between my seat on the chesterfield and her seat in a rich red leather chair.  Instead I swallow, allow more tears to flow and sit in silence hoping to bring this display of unwelcome emotion to a close.  With time it does.  I manage to regain control of this perceived sign of weakness. I able to stomp the secrets back down.  "This is a good thing," I tell myself because they almost lept out in my moment of weakness. 

I glance over at the clock and calculate that I have nine minutes left of my fifty-minute “hour”.  I have been a certified pro at avoiding the truth and shutting others out for thirty-seven years.  There is no doubt that I can muster another nine minutes of those same skills right here, right now….and so I do.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This post comes from an ongoing discussion about vulnerability that I have had with a few friends and with this counselor. (Practicing being vulnerable telling you that) Apparently, Those who want to experience peace need to allow themselves to feel vulnerable. That vulnerability may be in front of God, your spouse, significant other, strangers, friends or even your kids.  Whomever or whatever you believe, I am just learning that the truth is that only when you are vulnerable are you able to receive and tap into your most creative energy.  (I know, I could puke, this sounds very sappy and existential.  I suppose it is, especially if you aren’t able or willing to be vulnerable like I am not.)  I hate vulnerability.  It is a curse, or so I thought, until I began letting myself taste what it is like to be vulnerable. – Oh, don't worry..... I have only allowed myself to sip the poison.  With time comes ease, or so I am told.

Trust

As a teacher of young children I have been on the receiving end of many gifts.  The most memorable gifts have been those that students have whipped up for me.  Sometimes you see it happening before your very eyes.  It is not uncommon for a posse of five year-olds to be snipping, gluing, folding and assembling elaborate paper structures for you as a token of their appreciation all the while saying “Don’t look over here!”  I have received many kite-like paper objects over the years, though none ever seem to be able to become airborne.   

Today brought yet another opportunity to be appreciated by a child in my class.  One bright eyed, six year old Kindergarten student bounced in this morning holding a shoe box.  The box had been papered with red construction paper and covered in Popsicle sticks.  He used extreme caution while hand delivering this creation to me. 

(By the way, when you turn six in Kindergarten it is almost like a right of passage.  Your five year old peers LONG for the day they turn six; so much so that they soon learn how to add increments to their age.  Once one child has said they are 5 ½ then everyone who is five isn’t just five any longer.  Nope. They are 5 ¾ or 5 –but almost 6, etc.)

..…Here he came with this box which made me instantly think of the ballot boxes that must have been used for gubernatorial races back in the day before electronic voting machines crashed the voting scene.  He placed it on my desk and said, “This is for you!” He flipped the lid on the box and there inside the box was a Ziploc ™ baggie with three mini Kit-Kat bars, a smashed Milky Way bar and what appeared to be loose tiny pebbles of various colors.  The pebbles, I learned, were gum!  What a treat, eh?  Through further examination (i.e. – This child confessed) I learned that these sweet treats were his left over Halloween candies.  (Do the math, people.  It is February 9^th today.)

Now, for a six year old to cough up their left over Halloween candy, or any candy for that matter, is monumental.  Kids don’t give up candy under any circumstances.  They could be sicker than sick from eating too much of it and they still covet it.  This was big!  This was a token of his appreciation.  I stood there realizing for whatever reason this kid thinks I am a God.  If he is giving me his stash of candy, I must be highly ranked on his “likeable” list.

It gets better.  There was what appeared to be a plastic champagne cup in the box too.  I quickly concluded that it must be left over from a New Year’s Eve bash that his parents surely hosted, though I don’t have any evidence to back that up.  This champagne cup was no ordinary plastic stemware!  Nope.  It has been Decoupaged with various colors of tissue paper.  Only he didn’t use Decoupage.  The tissue paper was Scotch ™ taped to the cup with meticulous care. It was a beaut!

But Wait! There’s more…  He then unveiled a hand made pillow that was in the shape of a Dreydl with his photo ironed on to the front of it. (Someone had been busy "crafting like crazy" at his house.)  This pillow was handed to me, but not released to me as I reached for it. He spoke very careful details and waited for me to nod as a gesture of accepting his stipulations before releasing the pillow to my care… “You can borrow this, but I will need it back in a few days.  You can keep the rest of the stuff.”…..  And there it was, TRUST; staring me directly in the face.  It is a bit of a privilege to be trusted. Not just with other people’s kids all day, but that someone so young would trust you with one of their most prized personal belongings. 

For whatever reason it was humbling to me…. for a moment that is….Until I heard, “I can’t get undone!” from across the room from a child who had managed to attempt taking their coat off with their backpack still on creating a tangled mess.  And so the day began...

I Came to Dance~

Have you ever lost your sense of surrounding?  You know, you are engrossed in whatever it is you are doing and somehow you forget proper etiquette for your location?

Case in point; I was in class this morning “cleaning” or rather, moving piles around on my desk. (I do this often.  It gives the illusion that you are “organizing”.) I managed to steal three minutes to myself because the kids worked feverishly on making Valentine Card holders. Making these holders is always a BIG hit.  Boys and girls alike want to make these important card holders.  It isn't because they want to receive the friendship wishes on cards from their peers.  Nope.  They want the candy that is usually stuffed into the envelope making it nearly impossible to seal or that has been taped with yards of Scotch ™ tape on the exterior of the envelope. Pure gold when you are five.

I will never know why, but I started singing that song that goes “I came to dance-dance-dance. I hit the floor ‘cause that’s my plans-plans-plans-plans.” (I now know it is the song Dynamite by Taio Cruz. – Thank you Google.)

I thought I was singing it in my head, thus the reference in the opening paragraph to wondering if you have ever lost your sense of where you are.  Apparently, I was singing out loud. In an instant the classroom could have been mistaken for a trendy club on a Friday night.  No fewer than twelve students burst into song with me.  It caught me by surprise so much so that it was one of those moments when you throw aside all sense of appropriateness.  We were crooning, creating and cleaning. “Cause we gonna rock this club. We gonna go all night.  We gonna light it up like its dynamite.” I am sure the school board would be so pleased with the song selection for this music integration opportunity.

Yet another reason why I am grooving’ on my class this year.  We apparently have the same taste in music.  Or so I thought until one student asked me if I also knew the words to a song that Lady Gaga sings. 

Suddenly wondering if I give off the air of being a Lady Gaga fan my singing came to a screeching halt.

That was the end of the impromptu concert.

Whirlwind Workout~

I stepped foot into a gym today.  I know.  I know – Everybody CALM DOWN!… Batten down the hatches! – How many years has it been since I have done so?  I was pondering this very question as I climbed aboard one of the “newly re-designed” elliptical machines in the very back row of the cardio room.  Newly redesigned was simply “new” to me.  (The answer is nine.  Yep, Nine years since I have been in a fitness facility. – I know….. I gasped too as I did the math and came up with this nearly double digit.)  As I made the painstaking stretch onto this whimsical newly re-designed elliptical machine I was instantly struck with panic.  Not because I am completely out of shape and that I have no will power.  (Those fears will kick into high gear in a few minutes.)  A new series of concerns was emerging; the panel of buttons and lights gleaming up at me from the mother board of this exercise contraption. (Now, I am a button pusher from way back.  Anytime a friend gets a new car I must ride shotgun so I can try out all the contraptions.  I love it when we get a new copy machine at work because there are always so many buttons to explore. Yet, somehow the plethora of buttons on this newly re-designed machine was frightening to me.)

Then, suddenly, I am confused by the barrage of hieroglyphics on the control panel that somewhat resemble mountains, hills and flat surfaces.  What’s more is that this thing asks for your age and weight.  (Not fair)  After stumbling through the “programming” of this space age looking contraption I began the heaving of my body in the rhythmic manner that one should use when starting the elliptical.  I don’t think I let out a groan, though I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire population of the gym was looking at me thinking, “Who let this clown in.”

Not more than one minute into the “workout” I copped a can-do attitude. “This isn’t so hard, once you figure out the picture cues for programming.”  ……Too soon~ 

On minute two of this ride I felt the ground underneath me rise and tilt me backwards.  Yep, this newly re-designed elliptical has treadmill-like characteristics.  Well, this was no good.

Minute Three: A curtain of perspiration formed on my forehead as it took every shred of strength I had to hold myself aloft while this machine did the death climb.

Minute Four: The bud from my i-pod fell from my left ear, dangling down in the zone of the whirling elliptical feet.

Minute Five: Enough.  I reached for the STOP button. I do a quick eye-sweep of the joint to see if anyone saw my “quick” tour of the newly re-designed elliptical as I stomped over to the traditional treadmills.

Minute Six: There were no “newly re-designed” signs on this contraption so I figured it was a-go.  The treadmill also had a series of hieroglyphics and arrow buttons pointing up, down and sideways.  (Plus also, apparently all of these machines ask your age and weight.)

Minute Seven: I program the thing and soon enough the secure footing underneath me begins that forward movement forcing me to run or fall flat on my face.  I’ve run on a treadmill a zillion times.  Nine years ago was the last time, but the technology appeared to be the same.  Yet for some reason my legs didn’t move and all 240 pounds of me ended up in a pile on the floor at the end of the treadmill.

Though I was not injured, my pride was bruised beyond recognition.

Minute Eight, Nine or Ten: (Can’t remember exactly on account of I was so busy trying to get up and get out of sight) – I was stomping out the front door determined to try again tomorrow.  We’ll see~

Where are the Decorations?

As I stomped down the hallway to my classroom yesterday morning (three bags of "supplies" in hand) I noticed that my Kindergarten teaching colleagues had jigged up their doorways with hearts and Valentine's Day streamers, etc.    Mental note to self at this time, "Slap up some paper hearts or something so you don't look like the boob of the team."

Apparently others had noticed my failure to usher in the season of love.  It became clear to me yesterday when a growing number of five year olds commented on the smashing good decorations draped on the three doorways of the OTHER Kindergarten classrooms.  I am the adult.  So, I figured I could just pretend that I didn't hear the growing buzz from the student body assigned to my charge.  Ignorance, or the illusion there of, has never led young children to stop their crusade for whatever it is they want.  This situation was no different.

  Finally one of these kids who had kept her eye on the developing decorations across the hallway finally had a "meeting" with me.  She said, "Why can't we have something on our doors like the other classes?" - This was spoken with a hand gesture out the door toward the rather fancy hearts draped on the door directly across from our room. These hearts were strung together with some fancy ribbons.......... Good question.

So, when recess came I stomped next door to my colleague and asked if she had any stray hearts I could slap up as I was getting heat from the growing number of concerned members in my room.  My teammate pulled out some gummy hearts that you can stick on the windows.  Perfect.  This would just settle everyone down and we could get on with the rigor of Kindergarten..............Not so.

I was proud to announce to the students as they marched in from their recess break that I had "decorated" our room by putting up 8 gummy heart cling-ons on the window in our door.  They measured about 1 inch by 1 inch each.  They are NOT easily seen from across the room, or up close for that matter as they are transparent pink and yellow in color.

Now another Kindergarten student took it upon herself to say, "That's all we got?" 

Me:  "Mmmm Hmmm." (in a quiet tone)

Student: "Can we make some real decorations?"

With instant self- reflection I thought....Well, mine aren't amazing, but they aren't really fake either, are they?  Instead I just said, "Mmmm Hmmm.  You can make some."

Scissors, glue, string and paper were snipped, strewn about and on every surface during free choice.  Now our room is host to some exquisite hearts, heart garland and random love notes taped to various structures in the room.

This is what you get when you have a guy as your Kindergarten teacher.

Love is in the Air~

Love is in the air. Well, maybe not.  However, the topic of love is bubbling on the minds of five and six year-olds in Kindergarten.  As we race toward Valentine's Day and our "Friendship Party" the discussion about What is Love came to the surface today.  I recorded the input from the class.  You will note there is some understanding of how love goes with hugging and kissing, but I quickly had to issue a "We need other ideas in addition to hugging and kissing." to try and deflect all of the physical contact talk!  Some are quite humorous. (You will notice we are not quite to the stage of defining a word without using that word in the definition.  All in good time.)

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Love is like when you get married and stuff.

Love is when someone loves you or something.

Love is when I love my Mom and Dad and brother.

Love is when you hug someone or kiss someone.

Love is when something is so beautiful you just want to love it.

Love means that you like someone.

Love is if you hug and kiss.

Love is when you see someone and they see you and you start dating.

Love means that you like someone.

Love is when you hug somebody and kiss somebody.

Love means when you are nice to someone and you don't hurt them or anything.

Love means if you really like someone and you don't do anything mean to them and keep them away from someone who is mean and you kiss them on the lips.

Love is when someone gives love to you and you give it back.

Love is when you go to a marriage and there are some people at the wedding that are going to marry each other.

Love means you want to marry someone because they look so handsome and pretty.

Love is if you like somebody soooooo much!

Love is if somebody marries somebody else.

Love is when you run up to someone else.

Love is when somebody comes up to you and they say, "I love you."
Love is a boyfriend and  girlfriend and they want to marry.

Love doesn't mean that I hate you.