Check your pants

Word of advice: when your alarm clock goes off, get up.  Don't hit snooze 17 times like I do; just get up. Unfortunately, I did not heed my own advice this morning, and I paid the price.  Apparently, the universe wanted pay back for ignoring the world for an extra 15 minutes of sleep.  Consequently, a series of unfortunate events ensued. Well, not a series, but a couple. 

As you can infer, I was running late this morning after denying the fact that I did in fact have to wake up.  I headed out the door at 7:36 prepared to watch for cops while I carefully sped down the highway.  Before I could make it to the highway, someone had other plans to end my life.  This person decided not yield at his left turn while I was passing in front of him.  After I laid my body weight into the horn, he barely slammed on his brakes and swerved before hitting me directly.  If I wasn't awake yet, that certainly did the trick.  No one was hurt even though he almost hit someone else swerving out of my way.  All things considered, I actually made it to work some what on time and with only minimal speeding!  

Incident number two happened on my lunch break.  I ate a salty lunch at Panda Express with the hubs then I headed out to run some errands with my left over free time.  I pulled in to a gas pump ready to drop some cash, and as I slid my leg over the rough texture of my car seat, I heard it.  A quick, solid rip.  I got out of the car, felt the wind blow, and realized... My pants had ripped.  Cool.  Apparently my two-and-a-half-year-old-Gap jeans just couldn't hang on to the seam of the left butt pocket. 

Since I was on lunch break of teacher inservice, I didn't have much time to fix my problem.  I could have put on some athletic sweats to hide my inappropriately placed hole, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself and Target was conveniently located across the street.  I figured this was a pretty good excuse for some new jeans.  So, I slowly settled back into the car, trying not to exasperate the gaping hole.  Once I parked, I inevitably stretched the tear even more getting out of the car.  Realizing I was showing more of myself than I wanted to be seen, I attempted to walk.  I wish I could have seen myself as I waddled like a pirate with a peg leg, keeping the leg sporting the torn fabric straight out and swinging it out to the side of body so the hole wouldn't creep open.  I tried to minimize the full moon exposure. I felt like I had a prosthetic leg and was learning to walk again.   Inside, I discreetly dove into the clothes wall trying to hide the white gleam from my jeans from unfortunate onlookers and averting my eyes from any former students.  I grabbed the first pair of jeans I saw that weren't awful and came in my size. I tried them on with success, hurried to the cashier, proceeded to change, and escaped ridicule, laughing at myself the whole way.  Surprisingly, I still made it back to school on time for our second session.

Sometimes life plays jokes on you just to check your sense of humor.  God's got to throw you rough day every now and then to make sure you're still light enough to laugh at yourself. So, moral of the story: don't press that snooze button. You could almost wreck and your pants could rip.  Get up and start your day on the right side of the bed. And check your pants. 

New is Always Better

If you watch How I Met Your Mother, then you understand this Barneyism from which the title of the post originated.  If you don't watch it, I'm sorry.  You're missing out.  Barney is constantly spouting little snippets of truth that only make sense in his mind.  Think about it.  New clothes are better than old clothes.  New food is better than rotting food.  New things are better than old things.  Today, this snippet is true in my teaching life.

There is never a greater feeling the world for a teacher (you know besides the "ah ha" moment for a kid when the light bulb finally clicks inside) when that last kid leaves the building and summer comes blasting you with her inviting sunshine.  You walk out the doors of your classroom and feel like you could just open up your rib cage and jar up all the sun light in the world right there in your heart.  Freedom.  Then again, I do live in Texas so, if I want to survive, I don't spend too much of my time outside.  I've decided that summer for teachers is what hibernation is for bears.  After 10 months of toughing it in the wild, we just need to hibernate for a few months, get our strength back.  Then, we emerge from hibernation ready to feed on children.  Just kidding.  But seriously, the rest preserves our mental health.

Summer, in addition to hibernation, also brings some perspective.  It is a avenue that lets me travel back in time to revaluate what I did during the school year: what worked, what didn't.  Unfortunately, I found a lot that didn't work.  I'm thankful, though, to have a job that allots time for growth - that allows me to start over.

Much of my "hibernation" time has actually been spent working.  Since I felt like I had a lot to fix, I had a lot of reflecting to do.  To speed up the process, I spent two full weeks submerged in teacher land: trainings and workshops to make me a better teacher.  Honestly, though, I would rather be sitting in a training than zombie-ing out on my couch watching murder mysteries.  I don't like being idle.  Getting lost driving all over the metroplex was actually quite an adventure.  I enjoyed turning heads during my jam sessions with the Wicked soundtrack while sitting in traffic for an hour a day.  Plus, these opportunities steered me into the direction of some refreshingly passionate educators.  Since these trainings have ended, I have had time to debrief what I've learned and read what other experienced teachers do.  Thank you, Pinterest.  I've also read from other experts in the field such Kelly Gallagher and Ralph Fletcher to gather some ideas and inspiration.


Through all of this reflecting and reading, I've been inspired to fall in love with writing again.  Somewhere along the way I forgot what writing can do, that once it snaps you in it's jaws, it doesn't let you go until you've discovered some new part of yourself that you didn't know was there before.  Growing up, I'd always enjoyed writing and was fairly good at it.  All my elementary teachers told me so.  By the time junior high and high school hit, I'd suppressed any passion I had for it.  I tried my hand at poetry in high school, when I thought I was so clever and so deep.  Yikes.  It was pretty sad.  But college rolled around where I was forced to enact my creativity because of my creative writing and YA literature classes.  Writing in different genres (well just writing in general) unlocked some faint voice inside that convinced me I had something to say.  I was inspired.  (I don't claim to be good at it; I just claim to enjoy it.)

Warning:  Moment of uncomfortable honesty follows.  Read at your own risk.

Then, I graduated and hurried out into the real world eager to change lives.  But ironically, after three years of teaching, I forgot.  I forgot how much writing is laced with self-discovery.  I forgot that I love words.  I forgot that I love alliteration and metaphors and imagery and other nerdy literary things.  I forgot that I love the very subject I teach.  How is that possible?  I should be inspiring my students with my love for writing.  I should be inspiring them to take risks in their own writing, convincing them that they have a story to tell.  That's what good teachers do, right?  How could I have gotten so off track?  After this last school year, I left with a bad taste in my mouth.  I realized I was bored.  (If I was bored, I could only imagine how my students felt.)  I wasn't excited about teaching anymore because I had turned my classroom into a meaningless, confusing kaleidoscope of grammar.  No wonder my kids hated writing.  I was missing the point.  I had turned off my love of writing and blamed my difficult year on behavior issues.  I didn't want to admit that I wasn't meeting their needs.  That I was failing my kids.  I'd even thought about switching subjects and trying reading on for size.  I love reading so I figured I'd be better at that, but I felt guilty.  I felt like I was running away because it got hard.  I felt like I was quitting.  I knew something had to change.  This is not the teacher I wanted to be.

Before I could drive myself crazy with all my negativity, summer came to my rescue.  A little time, a little literature, a little training from other professionals, and a little writing was all it took to slap me in the face and help me remember what I love and why I teach.  I've been inspired again.  I've got some organizing to do, but instead of dreading the school year, I'm invigorated.  I don't have it all figured out and I'm actually a little nervous, but I'm thankful for a fresh start.  In this case, Barney is right.  New is always better.  New perspective.  New year.  New coworkers.  A new start with a new batch of rowdy, hormonal, creative teenagers for me to love and inspire.  It won't be easy, but I'm awakened from hibernation and ready to enter the wild.

Happy school year, folks!