Circle

March at TWT!

"I feel bad because no school. I feel boring in the home. I miss my teachers and friends at the school. And I feel a little scary because I don't want sick." K. tugs at her hijab as the rest of the circle nods.

"I feel good because I want to sleep in!" L laughs, as she often does in circle. "But I'm scared for my mom and dad." She switches to Spanish. My dad is all alone in Venezuela, and they don't have the tests there. And nobody in our family is with him."

Our circle gets quieter, that kind of deep, serious quiet that happens when people know they are connected through their inner feelings.

"But Miss Mitchell, what IS a virus? Where did this come from?" T. is in biology right now, but before he came here, he only had a couple of years of off-and-on schooling in rural Guatemala, as did several others in this class.

I feel inadequate trying to explain, especially as I try to echo myself in my second language. "Umm, it's some germs that can be passed between people, and they attack our bodies and make us sick..."

"In Guatemala, there are no tests and no money for medicine," T. looks down. "And they won't want people coming in, so I can't go back." I know he's worried about the little siblings he sends money to.

"I work at the front of my restaurant, and I'm scared! I talk to customers, clean the tables, and clean the dishes." Y. shakes his head. "I'm washing my hands all the time, but... what if someone comes in who has the virus?!"

"What about the people who work in stores?" I., brand new from Guatemala just two days ago, doesn't seem to be afraid of speaking up in his very first circle. "If the stores close, how will they get money? And how will people get what they need?"

"We went to the store this week, and everything was gone." L. jumps back in, even though it's not her turn, and that's ok, today. Anything is ok, today. "It reminded me of Venezuela. It wasn't a sickness, but when the economic crisis came, everybody bought everything, and nothing was left. It was just like this."

"It's not like America," B. jumps in. "That doesn't happen in America."

"My brother sells food, and the other night he was selling food, and a Chinese guy was too." Y.  has more to say. "They were both washing their hands between every batch and using gloves, but when they got to where they were taking the food, the owner threw everything from the Chinese guy right in the trash. Like a thousand dollars, right in the trash."

"I'm scared."

"I'm sad."

"I feel bad."

Around the circle. In English and Spanish.

"What's going to happen?"

I make sure everyone has said everything they want to say and close the circle. They head back to their seats, and I remind them how we'll connect over the next 3 weeks (although, in my head, I know it will probably be longer). I give them some time to explore the extra practice links I've provided and make sure everyone is set up for the tools we'll definitely be using.

I remind them that E+R=O, and talk about how this is one of those big events we can't control, but we can choose responses that will help us get the outcomes we want. I remind them how hard they've worked to learn English this year, how they all said that was one of their most important outcomes, how they don't want to lose the progress they've made. I bribe them with prizes when we return and finally see a few smiles, because I know that as hard as we might try to inspire ourselves by thinking of the outcomes we want, sometimes we all need a little extra boost.

I remind them that our school is working on a way to still provide food for students during these weeks, and tell them to message me if they need anything else, because there's an organization in our community that works to help families get what they need.

Our precious minutes are winding down, and their big eyes are looking at me like they don't want to walk out of our room. A Muslim girl from Kurdistan and a Catholic girl from Venezuela are holding hands, whispering how much they'll miss each other. They're scared and sad.

One of my toughest boys has walked out of class (and back in, of course) at least three times, and he keeps saying he's not coming back to school next year. The other is sprawled on the beanbag pillow, complaining that he's hungry and bragging about how he's not going to do any work over the break. They're scared and sad too.

The bell rings. I go to the door and offer each a hug or high five on the way out. When they think of our class and this day, I want them to remember how much I love them. I want them to remember that our class was a family.

Mostly, the girls give me tighter hugs than usual, and the boys opt for fist bumps. But Y., in line behind a girl, holds out his arms. I remember him trying to use the word "elect" in a sentence earlier this year, and writing "I elect Mrs. M to be my teacher next year." I remember overhearing him two days ago as he told our new student "Mrs. Mitchell is buena onda." I hug him, and his face blooms into his biggest grin. "I was scared," he laughs.

"It's ok," I tell him, and I hope it will be.

Unexpected Love

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

What does he want this time? 

Two minutes of my planning period remain before the bell rings to signal the start of the weekend. H. who is in one of my morning classes but has a class in my room during this period, is hovering a few steps away from the corner of my desk.

When he did this a few days after joining my class, it was to tell me he thought our class was too hard. (I reassured him that meant that he was now in the right place, as we'd switched him out of a class that was too easy for him.) A week later, it was to campaign for a break and ask why we have to work so hard all the time. (I took this a compliment, pointed to the big cut-out word "relentless" on the wall, and told him that I want him to graduate... and reassured him that we do have fun, too!) Does he need something? Is he going to complain about something again?

I "fix my face" a la Maya Angelou*, making sure my eyes sparkle with a real smile for him when I look up from my laptop. "What's up, H.?"

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and half-smiles. "You know how much I love you?"

??? I'm not sure how to answer this question from a male teenage student. Is he serious? "Yeah?" I answer-ask in what I hope is a joking tone.

"A LOT!" The half-smile blooms into a full one that spreads across his face. "I didn't know what to think of your class at first, and I didn't really like it..." His words are picking up speed and he's standing more firmly on his feet. "But now I really love it. I love being in your class!" His eyes beam joy right into mine.

I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding and relax my shoulders. "Aw, thanks, H! I love having you in my class!" What high school boy actually says that to his teacher? And at the end of the day on Friday? "Seriously, thanks so much for saying that. It means a lot!"

The bell rings, he waves, and the boisterous bustle of a high school at 2:42 on a Friday erupts in the hallway. I'm frozen in my desk chair, wrapped in the same kind of surreal delight that happens when I finish a really remarkable book and I just have to sit for a minute, feeling its weight in my hands.

* "You must remember, the very first thing a child sees, the first thing they notice when they see you, is you seeing them. They look carefully to see what your face looks like as you lay eyes upon their face. When you see a child, no matter what,  remember to fix your face."  

-- Maya Angelou

How the best band built the best version of me

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

What if the kids are bored? What if the other staff members don't like it? What if I don't do a good job? What if nobody wants to come back? What if... I take a deep breath and glance back at the awesome picture I put on my title slide. It's one of my favorites, with me as squad leader in the middle of a proud hats-off during my last year in the OSU Marching Band. I glance out across our club members, half-glad there aren't too many and half-wishing there were more today. I think back to my colleague's encouraging reply after I'd sent him my slides yesterday. Okay. Go.

A few minutes later, blood is pounding through my body as hard as when I dove so deeply into creating my slides this weekend that several hours somehow disappeared. I can feel the rush of marching again as I explain how every incredible moment in uniform was built on innumerable hours of diligent, intense, relentless practice. How every roar of the crowd came from countless choices of intentional discomfort and sacrifice: 2-5 hours a day, every day, all summer, repeatedly executing precise fundamentals with militaristic precision. In the heat. In the rain. When I was exhausted. When I was sore. When I wanted to sleep in. Analyzing every movement with a running checklist in my brain. Starting every time with the most basic elements of posture and in-place movements, even when I could have done them in my sleep, because I didn't want to do anything on default. Woody Hayes said that "you're either getting better or you're getting worse," and I wasn't about to get worse.

I run my fingers over the now-taped-up spine of my old spiral notebook and brush its coarse, battered cover against my palm before I pass it to a student. The E-7 notebook. Covered in quotes to inspire myself on the hard days and filled with precious tidbits of feedback from the mentor who would go on to become one of my best friends. My journey to earning the spot reserved for the best marcher in my row, to make sure that I wouldn't get complacent, to keep myself truly getting better every day. Just holding it gives me shivers, 15 years later.

All those hours on the field, devouring feedback after every drill, scrawling notes before jumping back on the line and snapping back to attention for more. Conversations with my friend about hard work, courage, leadership, and life, as we built the trust that was so essential for my growth. The determination with which I cut up the descriptions from our fundamentals packet and rewrote his feedback under each section to study, memorize, and turn into a mental checklist that ran through my head every time I marched. Back straight, horn straight, eyes ahead, legs up, toes strained downward, march "to the wall", don't dip shoulder, don't flash early, relax neck, throw head back, slam back down,  tense shoulders, "hit the table", don't dip, snap leg up...

It's surreal to stand in front of a classroom now, so far removed from those days, and see colleagues and students flipping through those tattered pages. I feel like they can finally see who I am, now that they can see where I came from. This is what I mean when I say I'm hardworking. This is the culture of challenging support, trust, and accountability that I dream of recreating in my classes and in our school.

"Did you guys see what it takes to become the elite of the elite?" the colleague in charge of our club jumps in. He starts to tie my ideas to his hopes for our future discussions and gives me a fist bump, and my blood and breath begin to find their way back to a normal pace.

"I can use this with my classes, right?" As we scurry to class, one colleague excitedly waves the planning worksheet I led the group through.

"I was starting to write up something as you were talking, and then you had it made for us!" another colleague declares. "And wow, those old notes of yours... how do you even learn how to take 22 1/2 inch steps?!" We giggle as I try to explain using maximum toe point to train your muscles to hit the yardline precisely with the ball of your foot every 8 steps. "I think we should keep checking in with our plans all year!" she continues, and I feel hope floating from my toes to my curls.

By our love

Day 27 of 31 at TWT!

Over the weekend, I went to see Paul, Apostle of Christ with a group of colleagues. For me, right now, just getting out there was an act of courage and joy, but the movie itself was even better than I'd hoped. It was an incredibly well-done, inspiring story that left us all doing plenty of reflecting, talking, and hugging afterwards.

As Paul suffers in a Roman prison, Luke keeps risking his life to visit him (so often that the Roman in charge of the prison wryly asks why he is so bent on sneaking IN when everyone else wants to escape!), hoping to preserve his life story to share with the floundering new church. At first, Paul doesn't believe he has any more to share, and Luke has to convince him of the difference his letters (which have always been my favorite books of the Bible!) have made already. My writer's heart loved how throughout the action, the movie interspersed moments of Luke writing down the story that would become "Acts", culminating with others in the community painstakingly copying it to share, rejoicing that they got up to 100 copies.

But my favorite thing about the movie was its overarching message of the power of love. Intentional, difficult, relentless love. Love in the face of evil and hatred. Love when you don't feel like loving. Love, even especially when it's hardest to love.

As the early Christian community faces appalling persecution and unspeakable suffering, frustration causes division that threatens to tear them apart. Luke advises the dissenters who want to fight back against the Romans that "Love is the only way," but in the midst of such horror, he barely believes his own words. Paul challenges him by describing the qualities of true love from 1 Corinthians 13:

Throughout the movie, this is the constant challenge: in order to stand out and spread their message, the early Christians must live it. They must choose love. Always. Love that perseveres through hardship, suffering, and cruelty. Love that does not retaliate, but keeps showing up with kindness, patience, and hope.

When I saw Luke's anguish, I was struck by how similar their world was to ours, even though we are thousands of years apart. Suffering, grief, dissent, betrayal, frustration, discouragement: we are never alone in those feelings, but the challenge is set for us to keep choosing love. At one point, Paul looks at Luke and proclaims, "They will know us by our love."

Immediately, I thought of situations where I need to do a better job choosing love when it's hard. I've read all those verses so many times, reflected and written about them, worked hard to intentionally cultivate relationships of all kinds, and even chosen OLWs to help myself focus on loving anyway. However, I can do better, especially in the face of hurt and disappointment, and seeing that idea come to life over the course of the movie was just what my heart needed.

In my most challenging situations, I want to be known for choosing love.

Examples

Day 15 of 31 at TWT!

"Mrs. M, I loved your post about your daughter with the stickers!"

"Oh yeah, I read that one too! She's so cute!" D. chimes in. "I remember she was so sweet at the Global Cafe!"

"Yeah, we're pretty much covered in stickers by dinnertime most evenings!" I giggle. I love that my kids are really reading my posts this year! 

I talk about my writing with my students all the time, I write in front of them, and I sometimes use my posts as mentor texts in class, but I've never had this many students independently visit my blog, even though I've linked here on our class blog during past March Challenges as well. This year, as I weave through the room during the time I give my students to leave comments, I've been frequently spying the familiar sunset background of my blog up on at least one or two screens.

Maybe it's that commenting has finally taken hold this year the way I've always wanted it to. Maybe it's that our new squad group format (which I seriously promise, again, to write more about soon!) and refined goal work have intensely strengthened the feeling that we are all learners working together to live our class motto of "being our best selves".

(Last week, after sharing how I hadn't met my weekly reading goal, one of my students remarked, "Wait, teachers have learning goals too?"As I started to wonder where he'd been all the other days and weeks I've modeled talking about my goals, another student jumped in: "Mrs. M always works on what we're working on!" Looking back, while the first student isn't exactly known for his stellar attention, I wonder if all that modeling just hadn't seemed as real until he noticed that I was sharing about NOT reaching a goal.)

Maybe living through my personal struggles this fall right in front my students helped them view me more as someone who works hard to persevere through obstacles, just like them.

Maybe this group of students would have just been particularly invested in the March Challenge anyway. But I'd like to think that some of that other work has made a difference. Regardless, it's really fun to see them reading and responding to my posts as a fellow writer and fellow member of our class community.

This morning, when I logged into our class blog to approve comments, this sweet one was waiting for me on the post where I link to my posts here, in response to yesterday's reflection on writing and running, and identity:

Don't you just love that she's encouraging me and giving me advice? She's one of my squad leaders, and I just chose her for our school's special "Celebration of Excellence" award. See why? She has been a major turning point in our class.

"You are one of my biggest examples in life, therefore I believe if you could do something I could do something as you do!" Her words echo in my head.

This is why I teach. This is why I write. This is why I share my reader-writer-learner self-who-is-working-to-get-better with my students.

Rising strong anyway

Day 6 of 31 at TWT!

Last night I went running instead of blogging. On purpose. I did not write, on only the 5th day of the March Challenge. I chose not to write.

That's a big deal for me, the ultimate perfectionist. To make a conscious decision to not be perfect. I was perfect for the first 3 Marches I blogged. Then, when I was pregnant with my daughter, I was decidedly not perfect. I just couldn't be, for a variety of reasons, and that was hard. However, I did write 14 posts and ended up feeling proud of myself anyway, because it was much better than not trying at all.

The next March, when she was 10 months old, I somehow managed to be perfect again! I have no idea how I pulled that off! It seems so impossible that I actually didn't remember doing it until I looked at my archives today to see how many posts I'd written the past few Marches. Did I seriously blog for 31 days in a row with a baby while still teaching full-time? I apparently did, because there they all are! (Clearly, that whole year was such a whirlwind that I have no recollection of that accomplishment though, so...)

Then there was last year. We won't even talk about last year. 9 posts total, and none in March. (I also didn't remember that until I looked back at my archives... how did I not even manage to write a single post all month?! How on earth did I talk to my students about writing if I wasn't doing it myself? I mean, I know it was a rough time, but yikes!)

And here we are, in 2018. Could I have written a post last night and pushed myself to write every single day this March? Yes, but I chose balance instead.

To write last night, I would have had to miss out on:

• reading and responding to incredible student slices and sending them out for our staff to read
• spending quality time with Little Sweetie before dinner ("Mommy, can we read this book together? Mommy, can you play with me? Mommy, can we snuggle on the snuggle couch and watch Daniel Tiger? ")
• running (and therefore feeling like SuperGirl!)
• a glorious bubble bath after running
• texting my best friend to support him through a challenge, as he has for me so many times
• snuggling up to Husband to scroll through the photos of Sweetie that my mom posted while we were at work
• enough sleep (honestly, this still didn't even quite happen!)

Could I have written, and missed some of that? Yes. Would it have been worth it? No way.

One of my colleagues loves to say that being elite is being the best version of you. In a discussion after school today, he reminded a group of us again that if you are seriously doing everything you can to be your best, then you are working to be elite. It's not about outside markers of success or how you compare to other people. It's about doing your work relentlessly, to be incrementally better every day, not just in one part of your life, but in all the parts that matter most.

So I'm not perfect this year, but I am doing my absolute best. And that's actually better than when I was perfect.

Right now, my best is to make time for writing every day that I can do it without sacrificing something else essential. To avoid the trap of perfectionism and roll all of my "one little words" from the past few years together: to LOVE hard and stay STRONG, ANYWAY, and to RISE in all areas of my life.

Belief and bravery

Day 3 of 31 at TWT!

"Mrs. M, can you come read this?" H. is staring at a draft on his Chromebook.

"Sure, what's up? Is there a certain part you'd like me to look at?"

"Um..." He hesitantly waves his hand across the whole screen. "I just want you to see if it's ok to post..."

"What?! H?!" I grin incredulously. "Why?! I'm sure it's fine! You're an awesome writer!"

"Well, it's just different than most other things I've written, and I don't know... Maybe it's confusing or something..." His voice trails off.

I peek over his shoulder to scan the first few lines, smiling at the flow of his usual strong, creative voice. Imperfect grammar, as is often the case, but not to the point of distraction or interference with meaning. "You're a good writer. Go ahead and publish it!" I nudge his elbow with mine and circulate back to another part of the room.

Later, as we're transitioning to the next activity, I notice that his Chromebook is still open, with that draft still sitting there. "H! You still didn't publish that? Push that button!"

"I, um..."

His squad leader D. leans across the table, smoothing her hijab. "What's going on?"

"H. is having trouble convincing himself to publish his post."

"You're such a good writer!" she exclaims, eyes lighting up. "Before I knew you [we've only been in these squad groups this semester], when Mrs. M would have us leave comments, I'd always look for your posts first! I don't know why, I mean..." She takes a deep breath, as if momentarily realizing that this is not the kind of thing most high schoolers say to each other, but then plunges ahead. "Your writing is really fun to read!"

He shifts in his seat, then reaches toward his Chromebook. "Really?"

"See?!" I grin at him, then turn to D. with an overflowing heart. I can't believe she just said that! I love these kids, and I love what blogging does for our classroom community. "Thank you for those kind words, D. That was really nice of you."

I open my stance to address the whole class. "You guys don't need me to tell you that your writing is ok. Be brave! Put it out there!" But then I fix my eyes back on H. "But sometimes I'm scared to hit that publish button, too! I still have days that I have to sit and stare at the screen for awhile, take some deep breaths, and talk myself into pushing that button! It's a big deal, sharing your words with the world! But it's also really awesome."

Turning point

Day 2 of 31 at TWT!

Oh yay, S. published a post AND she made it public! I scanned her title and hook, excitedly clicking to read the full post. Looks like a good one, too...

"Turning Point! / Life could change in minutes..." I scroll through her warm description of her childhood, relishing the opportunity to know this student more deeply.

Suddenly, I'm crying at my desk. I thought I knew what was coming. I know the things that my students have likely experienced when they come from a place like Syria. But it's one thing to imagine a vague possibility, based on news about faraway strangers, and quite another to read, in her own beautifully crafted words, what "my kid" has been through. "...all of these dream and plans disappeared when I heard this unforgettable sentence in news..." Whole messy tears spurt from my eyes, shoulders shaking, hands on my face. If someone walks by my room right now, they'll think I'm crazy. 

S. lights up our class every day with bright eyes, an always-ready smile, and such a voracious determination that I chose her to be one of my squad leaders after knowing her for only a few weeks. Taking that role to heart, she has consistently gone out of her way to help her group members, encourage them with caring comments, and let me know when she is concerned about someone, while still relentlessly challenging herself. For Valentine's Day, she had her squad surprise me with a card they had decorated by writing "I love you" in their languages.

S.'s Valentine's Day surprise.. she even sneaked it onto my desk in the middle of class! (If you're curious, the languages are Spanish, Arabic, Amazigh (Berber), and Hindi!)

This morning, her words had me wiping my eyes with hands that bear her Henna handiwork from Wednesday's Global Cafe.

Before even finishing my comment to her, I opened our staff Schoology group for sharing positive stories and began typing: "Everybody. Read this post!!!" I pasted in the link, posted, and returned to my half-written comment. "S, I'm literally crying at my desk right now..."

With that, my sluggish Friday morning was transformed into a day of pride. Whenever I got a chance, I eagerly refreshed our comment approval feed, hoping another staff member had left a comment. And again and again, they had. Compassionate, reflective, meaningful comments poured in, both from staff members who knew her and those who didn't:

"...You have a powerful voice and message..."
"... I am aware of the strife in Syria but your story makes it personal..."
"... Never forget the little girl in you... she is your heart and should be shared with the world every day..."
"Wow! This was an incredibly moving piece..."
"...You sound like a young lady of incredible courage, strength, and passion..."
"... I am now a better person because of what you shared!..."

Because of them, I got to start our blogging time in class by showcasing the connections and emotions that were brought about by S.'s powerful writing and courage in publishing her story publicly. I couldn't have designed a better "turning point" to get momentum going for the rest of March!

To top it all off, K. called me over near the end of class. "Mrs. M? I, um, just don't know how to comment on S.'s post! I mean..." Tears spilled over her eyelashes and down her face as she hurriedly tried to brush them away. "...I'm crying! I don't know what to say! It's so awful... I'm so sorry! I mean, it's not my fault, but I'm so sorry!"

"Say that, K. Tell her what she made you feel. Say exactly that."


(If you'd like to leave her a comment, don't worry when it seems to disappear -- it just has to be approved by me!)

A rising tide

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

"I get it! Now I'll leave comments! I read the comments they left me and I just..." With sparkling eyes, A. looks up from her blog and presses her hands over her heart.

"Seeeee? I tried to tell you!" I nudge her shoulder with my elbow. "But I know... it's hard to understand how powerful comments can be until you get a really meaningful comment, right? And it just gives you this incredible feeling... that's exactly what happened to me with my teacher blogging friends! This is what I've wanted for you guys!"

This little moment with A. is the culmination of several days of having my heart soar as I scrolled through the comment moderation feed on my class blog. Every year, I try to teach my students the power of commenting on others' writing. Every year, I dream of recreating for them the uplifting community of writers I experience every Tuesday through slicing. Every year, a few students buy in and craft some encouraging, thoughtful comments for others. But every year, the experience has fallen flat for most of them. Until this year.

A few weeks ago, I'd once again given a mini-lesson about how to construct a thoughtful comment. It was a darn good mini-lesson, complete with us working together as a class to craft a meaningful comment on one of the TWT author's OLW posts. Once again, I put up a chart on the SMARTboard of the components of a quality comment, with sentence starters, as I sent my students off to their Chromebooks. Once again, not enough kids put in enough effort to create a truly meaningful connection. Once again, their sighs and glazed eyes revealed that most of them viewed it as just another task to complete, and a rather onerous one at that. Once again, many of them scrolled through their classmates' OLW posts without commenting at all or left short, generic, superficial comments.

My muscles tensed as I circulated though the room with my laptop, approving the mostly-mediocre incoming comments and hurling gentle reminders over shoulders. "Remember to leave a thoughtful, 2-part comment!" "Don't forget to try out some of the sentence starters on the board!" "'I liked your writing. It was good.' is not a quality comment!" There was probably steam coming out of my ears by the end of that afternoon.

After class, I flopped into my desk chair, put my chin on my arms, and fumed. Why don't they ever get this?! It could be so awesome! Suddenly, I remembered a takeaway one of my colleagues had shared from Urban Meyer's book on coaching & leadership: "In the old days he got furious. Now, he gets curious: where did the breakdown occur?"

My mind cleared. Curious, not furious... Ok. This is a leadership breakdown. Ever since this particular colleague has brought Focus-3's R-Factor leadership training (the culture / leadership system OSU football uses) into our building, I've shifted to a new vision of my responsibilities as classroom leader. I knew I'd given them the skills they needed to write effective comments. They just weren't doing it. Ok. This is not a skill gap. This is a clarity-of-purpose gap. They weren't seeing the value, even though I'd tried to explain and model the power of commenting. Time to regroup.

The next day, I pulled my class into the meeting area with a blank page on the SMARTboard. With more than a little fire, asked them, "Why do you think I ask you to leave comments for other writers?" After 10 solid minutes of popcorn responses so fast I could barely scrawl them on the board, they'd hit everything I could have possibly wanted to lecture them on: Reading like writers to learn new writing strategies. Practicing good writing in their responses. Getting to know each other better. Building confidence and pride in their writing. Reflecting on the components of good writing... Everything. And they were ready to go.

I felt like we shouldn't have needed that conversation. We shouldn't have had to "waste time" backtracking to talk about why to leave comments when we'd done it several times this year. They should have known. But whether you "should have to" do something is another mindset shift my colleague has had me reflecting on. Regardless of what I thought should happen, there was some kind of disconnect between my vision and theirs, and that discussion transformed it. Maybe it was the days of foundation after break we'd just spent reflecting on first semester and setting goals, maybe they could see I was fired up, but I think the biggest difference was that they felt invested in creating the reasons themselves. 

And that day, enough of them got on board to turn the tide.

The next day, I pulled up some of the best comments and we analyzed them together, noticing the words and strategies that made them so powerful. My group leaders (more posts coming on that!) started really pushing themselves to make a difference in their comments to their group members. More momentum. 

Since then, it has been pure delight to scroll through that feed, clicking "approve" and getting goosebumps. Almost every comment has been crafted with specific, intentional thoughts to lift the writer and build a meaningful connection. 

And the more meaningful connections, the more reluctant writers like A. will see their power and RISE, wanting to pass that feeling on to others. Enough ripples make a wave. But the ripples start with me: curious, not furious.

Bootiful bodies

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

"Mommy's body's OUT!!!" As I start to change into my running clothes, M&M throws her arms into the air and charges across the room towards me, a flailing windmill of delight.

My mind flashes back to before I had her, when I used to laugh at stories of moms complaining they couldn't even go to the bathroom alone, wondering if that was really true. It is, of course, but it turns out that having a small person put her hands on your knees and stare up at you while you pee (even if she announces "Mommy's peeing in the potty!" in a public restroom) is much more cute than annoying, at least when the small person is the sweet, perfect miracle you grew in your belly.

I crack up as she flings her skinny arms around me, only slightly embarrassed that she is making such a production of what used to be a private activity. Suddenly calm, she strokes my belly and gazes up at me. "It's bootiful!" she softly declares.

I look down, not sure we're seeing the same belly. Freckles, pale skin, too much squishiness and pudge that never goes away, no matter how much I run and work out or how well-toned the rest of my body gets. I love the strength that shows in my arms and legs, which are scrawny enough otherwise that they display my muscles in a way that makes me quite proud, but I'm not a fan of my belly. (And yes, I know, it grew her into a person, but it was already too squishy before that!)

"Thank you, Sweetie!" I kneel down and squeeze her into a big hug, feeling like I'm going to split open and a radiant star is going to burst out of my body. This is important. This is my chance to stop passing on body hatred. "Your body's beautiful, too!" I tug her shirt up and sprinkle kisses all over her belly. I bump her belly with mine. "Look at our beautiful bellies!" Her best-sound-in-the-world giggle tinkles around the room.

"Hey, let's take some selfies with our beautiful bodies!" I want to freeze this moment and remember it forever. Stretching out my arm, I start pushing the white button. "Bootiful bodies! Bootiful bellies!" she squeals.

A minute later, I scroll through the pictures: Her head nestled against my sports bra as she wraps her arms around my belly, cooing and grinning as she squeezes that squishiness I hate into a loving hug. Her proudly posing beside me, rubbing her bare tummy with one hand and patting mine with the other. Her patting my neck, gazing at me and then playfully stretching out a tiny finger to poke my belly button.

I did freeze the moment, but I don't even need the pictures to replay it. Every time I start to look at my belly with less-than-positive thoughts, I hear her little voice again. "It's bootiful!"And just this morning, after several days had passed, she rubbed her belly as I changed her, saying "Bootiful body!" And then she reached for mine again. The other night, as Husband and I held her before bed, she exclaimed, "Mommy's bootiful! Daddy's bootiful too!" and patted both of us.

And I started to believe her.

All she sees is love. She doesn't see that Mommy and Daddy do not exactly look like we stepped out of a fashion magazine. She sees Mommy and Daddy, who love her.

She also loves our hair, face, eyes, teeth... <3

I know that no matter how hard we try to protect her, she will eventually be bombarded with the message that she's not good enough, not pretty enough, not perfect enough. But I refuse to be part of that, and the first step is not sharing the cycle of negative self-talk. So yes, Sweetie, Mommy and Daddy are "bootiful." So are you. So are we all.

Daddy holding

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

"Oh, poor thing, she probably wants you!" Several colleagues around the table nod knowingly, exchanging mom looks as I explain that Little Sweetie is home sick with Husband today.

"Actually, she probably wants him! She's been really attached to him lately since she only sees him for a short time each evening."

"They always want Mommy when they're sick, though!" More commiserating mom looks across the conference room. This whole gender role thing is super out of control! Even though Husband doesn't have to write sub plans and has more time off than I do, and even though I absolutely thrive on putting my whole self into making a difference every day while I'm at school, my colleagues have almost managed to guilt me into feeling bad that I'm not the one staying home today. I feel as if I've broken some sort of unwritten rule that Mom has to be the one to stay home with the sick kid. It's just like when we'd go out after first having her, and everyone would act astonished that Husband was acting like an equal partner in taking care of her. Those first few weeks, we couldn't help but be astonished at the frequency of comments like, "Ooh, he changes diapers?!"

"I didn't want to wake her up when I left, but I'm pretty sure she'll be really excited to spend the whole day with Daddy!" I try not to roll my eyes, because I know my colleagues mean well and are trying to imply that we share some sort of special womanly connection as moms. Forever the fiercely independent tomboy, I don't quite feel it, but I appreciate that they're trying to connect with me.

At the end of the school day, Husband texts me to say that Sweetie is still feeling so bad that they're going to the doctor, so I hurriedly pack up and jump into the car to meet them. The check-in secretary waves me through the waiting room door and a sweet young nurse directs me to an exam room. "She's just the cutest," she gushes, "it's so sad that she's sick!" As I shove the door open, I see Husband hushing me with an urgent finger over his mouth. Little Sweetie is curled up on his chest, sound asleep, sighing huge, heavy breaths.

When my childhood doctor finally comes in, she stirs unhappily, emitting pathetic squeaks and whimpers. "Mommy's here, Sweetie! Look, Mommy left work early to see you!" She stares at me with vacant eyes and starts to cry as the doctor begins trying to look in her ears. "Do you want to come see Mommy?" I offer, and she reaches out for me, but I only hold her for a minute before she leans back toward Husband, shaking and crying harder. "Daddy!" "I think she remembers this place and thinks she has to get shots," he shrugs.

Giving her a final snuggle, I pass her back to him, and she burrows back against him while I settle for patting her arm. The doctor decides it must be a virus, advises us to keep giving her fluids and Tylenol, and sends us back home without any real solution.

"Do you want to ride in Mommy's car or Daddy's?" I ask as we gather our bags and coats. "Mommy!" she mumbles sweetly. "Ok, you can listen to your mirror in Mommy's car!" We walk out, and check again as we approach the cars, since she usually doesn't like when we have to leave somewhere in separate cars. "Do you want to ride with Mommy or Daddy?"

"Mommy!" I open the car door, pull my seat forward, throw my bag on the floor, and reach for her, but she clenches her legs tight against Husband and digs her tiny fists into his shoulders. We glance at each other. "Do you want to ride with Mommy or Daddy?"

"Daddy!" I kiss her and wave bye-bye, and when we meet back at home, she wants to sit all evening on Daddy's lap, while Daddy reads her books and Daddy holds her water bottle. ("Do you want to sit on Mommy's lap?" "Daddy!") And Daddy does, even though he's exhausted from an entire day of holding her and trying to make her feel better.

And after she refuses every dinner choice we offer and then throws up, she nuzzles deeper into his shoulder and mutters, "Hold you. Holding."

"Daddy will hold you!" he whispers in her ear. With teary eyes and shaking shoulders, he hugs her tighter and carries her up to bed. He loves her THAT much! So much that her pain hurts him!

At 20 months old, she doesn't have any ideas about who's supposed to take care of her. She knows we both love her, and she knows that time with Daddy is extra special.

I'm awestruck by how much I love them both.

Thank FULL

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

"I love godmother"

"💕 THANK YOU 💕 "

"Dear Mama, Thank you for loving me..."

My heart does a few flips in my chest as I glance around the table at the thank-you cards my beginner ELLs are making for people they are thankful for. "Aww, your people are going to LOVE these!" I squeal, and the warmth spreading through my body grows as I peer closer over their shoulders.

"Thank you for supporting me in everything..."

"I appreciate when you listen to me..."

"I am grateful for your patience even when I am unruly"

"I love when we talk in the kitchen..."

The language teacher in me is excited that they're doing a great job applying the sentence structures and vocabulary from my mini-lesson, but the so-much-more-than-language teacher in me wants to skip across the room. My kids are the absolute sweetest. They do not have all the words they need, but they are not afraid to try to say exactly what is in their hearts.

The bell is about to ring, and I want to hug them all, wishing I could see each of them give these cards to the special people in their lives, when H. waves me over to her seat. "Mrs. M, how do you spell your name?" And in case my heart couldn't get any fuller, she fills my name into the blank space she had left after "Dear" and hands her card to me.

There is no better feeling than knowing that your students see you exactly as you hope they do.

After all

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

"Hi :-) Mrs. M teacher! :-)" As I settled into my chair to check my morning emails, my eyes flicked from the subject line to the Korean characters in the "sent" column to the English version of the name beside them. Oh my gosh. It's K.

K, who used to be standing outside my classroom door every morning when I got to school, shoulders slumped in and long bangs combed purposefully across his eyes, hiding from the world. K, who scrawled a mixture of astute explanations (often accompanied by impressive diagrams to compensate for his limited English) and heavy-handed, repetitive "I hate..." statements. K, whose monsters would scare him so far into himself that he'd shut down completely, a little ball of lanky teenaged boy over by the window. K, who would then suddenly just let loose in a stream of hesitant-but-perceptive questions and reflections, pouring out his battles in halting beginner English for 20 or 30 minutes after class or before school the next day.

Identifying his triggers. Figuring out coping strategies that might work. The same anxious questions over and over again. Fighting his brain and feeling so frustrated and discouraged by what was "wrong" with him. Apologizing for disappointing me and sweetly thanking me for my help. Creating fascinating analogies, like comparing his energy to a phone battery that ran lower as the week went on, but could be "recharged" by help from his support system at school. Such insight in the midst of such overwhelming challenges.

K, who was suddenly just gone. Withdrawn from school one day last fall and sent back to Korea after an awful incident at home. Just like that. All the hours of listening and talking, of hooking him up with other supports, of keeping in close communication with those team members and wracking our brains to come up with innovative ideas to help him be successful... gone. We didn't even get to say goodbye.

Hours of work off of our plates, but it didn't feel good at all. Just when we were starting to get a really good support system in place, just when we were really feeling good about what we were doing to help him... he was gone. Ripped away from all those new supports. We didn't even get to try the check-in form that I'd worked so hard to make for him. My whole body seemed to be trying to tie itself in knots as I signed his withdrawal paperwork. What would ever happen to him, starting over in Korea?

And here he was, after all this time, right in my inbox this morning. Nothing in the body of the email, just that greeting in the subject line. But it was him. Alive, presumably not in jail or in a hospital, and emailing me to say hi with cute little emoji smiles. Tears spurted from my eyes as I restrained myself from replying IN ALL CAPS! "K, I'm so glad to hear from you!!!"

And later today, in his reply back, this sentence that tugged my heart right back to all those arduous-but-profound conversations: "Thank you for letting thoughts."

We didn't save him. We didn't get him close to graduation. We couldn't even help him avoid blowing up that weekend last fall. But he remembers my classroom as a safe place, and he remembers me as someone who cares. I must be doing a pretty good job, after all.

House and home

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

"Ok, bye-bye, park!" Even though I'm so excited about our new house, tears sprout at the corners of my eyes as I get M&M to wave. I'm just terrible at endings of any kind, and really, this park is one of the things I'll miss most about this neighborhood. We've relished so many sweet, sunny afternoons here throughout the past year, and the playground has a few unique toys that most others don't. I don't know anywhere else that has a bouncy turtle and a bird teeter-totter!

This house, our first house, has been a wonderful one, but we always knew we wouldn't stay here. Still, nearly seven years of happy memories is a lot to leave behind.

Pure wonder when a spindly-legged spotted fawn wandered gracefully into our yard as we ate dinner one evening. Silly squirrels refusing to be baffled by the squirrel baffle. Scampering bunnies and gorgeous roses that somehow always blossomed in spite of our lack of careful attention to their wellbeing. Snow days, snow forts, and snow rollers. Birthday scavenger hunts.

Four years ago (almost exactly this week, probably!), I was soaking up sunshine and bird chatter when my phone rang with our district ELL coordinator offering me my current job. From traveling Spanish teacher to ELL teacher at a building I might stay at for the rest of my career: what a moment!

A year and a half ago, I gleefully ran downstairs when Husband got home and surprised him with the "Which hand?" game. (That's a family tradition where you hide something behind your back, making the other person guess which hand it's in but moving it every time until you both collapse in giggles and they wrestle it away from you!) His initial puzzlement at being handed some weird blue plastic contraption gave way to happy tears for both of us when he turned it over and saw the little screen displaying one word:

Just over a year ago, we pulled into the driveway, dazed and overflowing with love, incredulous that the hospital had actually let us loose to just take care of this little wiggly bundle of squeaks on our own. "You've never seen a place like this in your whole life!" we told her, seeing it with new eyes ourselves.

Over the next couple of weeks, I was determined to work my way up to walking to the park. One hand over the wrap on my belly, with Husband pushing that sleepy, squirmy bundle of animal noises coiled in the carseat-stroller, I shuffled along the sidewalk: down the street, then around the corner. A whole block, then several blocks! Down to the first major junction, within sight of the park. And finally, just before Husband's paternity leave expired, to the park and back!

At first, I was afraid to take her out of the house by myself. What if she started crying and wouldn't stop? What if she wanted to eat again really soon? What if she spit up everywhere or had a diaper blowout? What if... I don't know what else I thought might happen, but it seemed scary! Getting out the door the first time was a major accomplishment. Look at me! I could take my baby someplace! And it was fun!

From then on, the park was our place. At first, every tiny bump in the heaved-up sidewalks made her fling her arms and legs sideways in full startle mode, so the blacktop bike path in the park was a relief for both of us. I reveled in my newfound strength: in my legs, my belly, and my heart. We relaxed on our favorite bench in the shade. She started noticing trees, staring wide-eyed at them and cooing. She began babbling at me and flailing when she saw something exciting: a dog, a bird, a person, a branch swaying in the wind. Eventually, she was shrieking and giggling on the swings, waving to everyone she saw.

One gorgeous fall day, Husband and I were both walking her to the park as she lounged contentedly in her seat, gazing up at the trees and us, when she looked me right in the eyes and said, "Ma-ma". Pure magic.

Her first giggles and babbles. Rolling over, sitting up, pulling up. Cackling with delight to see us every morning. Stretching out her tiny finger to point at all her favorite things: her toys, her wall decals, the headboard of our bed, our bags, clothes, and water bottles.

Snuggling up and reading her good-morning book. Her eyes getting huge each time we pulled into the darkness of the garage after being out somewhere. Panting and squealing with excitement at the sound of Husband opening the door after work, then thumping her tiny hands and knees across the floor with determination to go see him once she finally figured out how to crawl forwards. Sweet, snuggly evenings filled with so much love. One of us creeping upstairs with her limp body snuggled into one of our shoulders, one arm dangling straight down.

Chortles and flails as the neighbors opened their doors on Trick-or-Treat night. Staring at the Christmas tree with wide eyes and tearing through wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Pondering the cold feeling of the first snowflakes on her soft skin. Meeting the Easter Bunny and doing her first egg hunt in the park.

But a house is just a building, and everything that I treasure most still lies ahead: an apartment full of anticipation, and then a lifetime of memories in our dream house, with every detail just the way we want it. The toothy smiles and shrieking laughs will bounce off new walls, and we'll snuggle up with books on the same comfy couches, just in a different arrangement. Little Sweetie will take her first steps, play with her first friends, do her first homework, and so much more.

Our first house has been a good one. But more importantly, our home is a wonderful one, no matter where we are.

What a difference

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

"Awwww, look how tiny and floppy she was!" I burrow my head farther into Husband's shoulder and crane my neck to look up at him. Our eyes sparkle at each other briefly, then return to his iPad. "Her skin is so red! And look at her scrunched eyes, like 'this place is so bright'!"

Ever since the anniversary of the night Little Sweetie decided to make her dramatic entrance, we've added a new component to our nightly routine: snuggling up to swipe through the "Rediscover this day" feature on Google Photos. What a difference a year makes!

Daddy? What is this place?

Swipe. Droopy, drowsy Little Sweetie sags in Husband's hands as he tries to burp her. It seems like ages ago that he had to hold her in a sitting position to burp because she'd flop right off his shoulder. Now, burping is an active sport as she often climbs off our shoulders to sit, stand, crawl or lunge around on our laps!

Swipe. Squinty eyes peer dreamily up at Husband from a coiled bundle of scrawny, limp limbs.

Swipe. Spindly fingers explore the side of her own head, trying to figure out this strange new world she suddenly inhabits.

Swipe. Her half-open eyes are starting to show hints of the bright curiosity to come, and her mouth has found her wrist as she starts to untangle and tame those tricky arms and legs. "Look! A week old, and she's already going for her wrist! We didn't even know that was going to be the way she'd comfort herself!"

Swipe. A slightly bleary-eyed me holds one hand on the wrap on her belly, bravely striving to walk a block outside. In front of me, a teeny folded creature is practically swallowed by the padded infant insert in the stroller.

It's almost unfathomable to transport ourselves back to those hazy whirlwind days of trying to figure out our new world. A constant cycle of feeding, burping, and trying to interpret the squeaks and squawks. Husband changing all the diapers as I worked on sitting, standing, and tottering around with tiny steps, trying not to laugh so my scar wouldn't hurt.

What a difference a year makes! And what a year it has been! The creature who floundered and flailed in the general direction (or not!) of something she wanted has become a small person who points, crawls, cruises, and grasps. The animal noises that evolved into coos and experimental consonants have now developed into purposeful babbles that name the things she loves: Ma-ma, Da-da, book, bird, bag...

I know we can't possibly imagine all the wonder and joy that still awaits us. Today's big milestones will seem unbelievably far away when we "rediscover this day" next year and in every year to come. So we will settle back, snuggle up, and soak in every moment.

Such a (little) big girl!

Surprise!

Tuesdays at Two Writing Teachers!

May 8, 2015:

Fluttering sparrows flitted overhead, darting around the vivid umbrellas as if dancing to the lively mariachi music. I pushed my plate toward the center of the table, hoping to avoid having my shirt meet the last bits of enchilada sauce, lettuce, and sour cream. Settling back against the wrought-iron chair, I widened my gaze to the perfect blue sky. Almost summer. Almost like I didn't teach today. Almost pure peace.

Until
suddenly

"Ummmm..." Heat coursed through my body as I tried to find the words to tell Husband that...

His eyes locked onto mine, widened, and I knew I didn't have to bother with the words, but they tumbled out anyway. "Um, I think my water broke... I mean, maybe I'll go to the bathroom and check, but I..." As I scooted back my chair to let my beach ball belly up, I happened to look down at the ground.

"Oh sh*t!"

Blood. Blood was everywhere. There was a puddle of blood under my chair. On the patio. At El Vaquero. And when I'd stood up, more had gushed out. I sat back down. Then stood back up. We should go! Nope, because more gushing, more blood. Back down again, because clearly standing up was making it worse. "Okay, so, um...!!!" What do we do?! I can't get to the car if I can't stand up without gushing blood everywhere! Blood is bad! Is something wrong with the baby?!

For a few seconds-hours-years, we just sat there, clutching each other's hands. Our minds racing, but our bodies paralyzed, trying not to ruin everyone else's dinners on that gorgeous Friday night.

Finally, my mom's secretaries (who we'd said hi to earlier, as they'd sat a few tables away from us by chance) somehow noticed our quiet distress. "Are you guys ok?" one said with a motherly smile, just as Husband began dialing 911.

"No, um, I... there's blood everywhere..." My face burned as I pointed to the concrete below my chair.

"Oh, it's okay!" She pulled up a chair beside me and the other two ladies came over to Husband. "I used to work in an OB office, and sometimes a blood vessel breaks. You're just having the baby today, that's all." She patted my arm. JUST HAVING THE BABY?! She's not due for another three weeks!!! "Have you called your mom?"

"Um, no, he's calling 911..." I gestured helplessly at Husband.

"It's ok, we'll sit with you until the ambulance comes, then." One of her friends began calling my mom, and Husband and I started to breathe again. Before we knew it, the comforting sight of a yellow box with sirens pulled up, and the panic surging through me shifted to a surreal haze.

"Here, you're ok, you can walk to the ambulance," the paramedic gestured toward the patio gate. Walk through all those tables of people? With blood all over my pants?! Obediently mortified, I nodded and shuffled behind him, at first trying to pull my shirt low to cover the blood and then yanking it up again as I realized I didn't want to get blood on it!

"We'll get your bill! Here, give us your keys and we'll drive your car to the hospital!" Thank goodness for my mom's secretaries!

"Congratulations!!!" grinned the waiter who held open the patio gate. I winced. OMG, soooooo sorry you have to clean that up...

"Hey, let's take a picture and put it on Facebook!"

"Wow, you're so healthy! I never would have guessed you were 31!" The medic chuckled as he handed my ID back. Healthy? Is that his polite way of saying that I look like I'm twelve? Hooked up to monitors, with qualified medical professionals and on the way to the hospital, I started to settle in and enjoy what a ridiculous story this would make someday. "Can you imagine what all those people back at the restaurant are saying?!" I giggled at Husband. "And those poor workers who have to clean that up?! We'll never be able to eat there again!!!"

"This is so weird! Now WE're the people in the ambulance!" Gazing out the window at the cars we were passing, watching backwards as roads I'd driven all my life became unfamiliar, I felt like I was standing outside myself. "I've never been in one before, have you?"

All at once, the whirlwind of highways was over and we were pulling up to the homelike roads of campus. Oh yikes. This is really happening. We're going to have the baby. My adrenaline began pumping again as they lowered the cot down the ramp under the imposing shadow of the medical center. I turned my head and... There. Was. My. Mom. Flailing across the parking lot with that silly, limp-limbed run of hers. How did she beat us here, when she was 10 minutes farther from the hospital than we were? How did she know where the ambulances would pull up? She's so crazy!!!

My silly, funny mom. Breathlessly running up to our little crew, squeezing her way right in between the medics and blabbering on with a thousand questions as we wove our way up the back hallways of the hospital, completely ignoring my pleas that I don't think you can just walk up the back entrances with the paramedics. Of course she beat us here. Of course she found the right place to go. She's hysterical!

But as funny as it all was, my anxiety was kicking in. I needed more calm, not more excitement. Husband finally shooed my mom into the waiting room and we settled into the little prep room for hours of checks, monitoring, trips to the bathroom and waiting. ("What had you eaten?" the doctor asked as we told the story. "If it was something small, we might not have to wait the whole 8 hours." "Ummm, I ate a whole dinner of enchiladas...")

"Are you having any contractions?" I shook my head uncertainly as the nurse hooked up the monitor to my belly. "Oh, look, that was one!" she exclaimed as a tiny cramp scampered across my belly. Sweet, I can barely even feel them! She may be dramatic, but she's easy too! Husband and I wound down our flurries of texts to friends, and having done the math, I curled up to take a nap. With a C-section coming at 2:30 a.m., I'd better sleep while I can!

Greetings

Day 28 of 31 at TWT!

Last night I couldn't fall asleep. Not the awful, anxiety-driven can't-fall-asleep, but the excited, Christmas-morning can't-fall-asleep. And this morning, I didn't even mind when my alarm went off two and a half hours earlier than I'd been getting up last week. I get to see my kids! I wonder how they're doing? I can't wait to continue our Slice of Life mini-lessons this week! I can't wait to see what everyone is reading! 

At 7:15, when Little Sweetie would have normally been waking me up, I was practically skipping around the room. Turning on the happy lamps, changing the calendar and the idiom of the week, adjusting the pillows and rugs... getting our little "home" all ready.

Bouncy steps mingled with half-tired smiles. "Hi, Mrs. M!" "I missed you!" "How was your break?" "You finished The False Prince?! See, I told you the ending was great!" "I liked your posts over break!" "I didn't go anywhere either, but I had fun taking my baby to the zoo and the park! Sometimes, the best break is just to relax, right?" Many of my students don't have exciting breaks, unlike many other kids in our upscale suburban town. For some of my kids, break isn't really even a very nice time. "I was kind of glad to be back into the routine of school, weren't you?"

I love this job. I LOVE this job! Genuinely full of joy, my heart reached out with invisible hugs as each of those sweet students walked into my room. Noticing and enjoying the familiarity of their haircuts, their clothes, their smiles, their strength. Remembering their stories.

And at 4:00, when I walked into my mom's house, the other side of my new life. I love this too. What a bundle of adorableness! Little Sweetie giggling, wiggling, squealing and cooing. All flailing arms and thrashing legs, with her most gigantic jaw-stretching smile. "Ma-ma-ma!" The best feeling in the world.

In greetings, our most true feelings shine through.

Who you become

Day 13 of 31 at TWT!

"Ben te ha enviado una foto." I swipe my finger across the screen to access my messages. Two blurry black and white blobs fill the screen, and my heart is suddenly ready to burst. The whole world freezes as I stare at my phone. My best friend is going to have a little sweetie!!!

Bouncing in my seat, I recklessly interrupt whatever my husband and my parents are talking about. "Ben's going to have a baby!!!" I pat Husband's leg and smile over at Little Sweetie, remembering the whirlwind ten months of joy and learning we've had since she decided she was too excited to wait the last three weeks until her due date. She babbles in her highchair, squealing with delight at her toys, the window, the TV, my parents, and the other patrons at the restaurant. So much joy.

Before we had her, I was never a fan of babies. What weird little monsters! Everyone else seemed to love them, but why? They were always crying, spitting up, dribbling snot and spit everywhere, and needing their diapers changed. While everyone else ran to coo and play with a baby, practically knocking each other over for chances to hold it, I was the one backing away to watch from a safe distance where I wouldn't have to worry about if it would like me, if it would start crying, or if it would spew nasty germs all over me. And they were so floppy! How did everyone just know how to hold them? They were like strange little aliens. 

Sometimes there would be a lady with a baby in a waiting room or parent meeting, and it would be pulling her hair, touching her face, squirming and getting fussy. That poor lady! She can't even concentrate! And it's probably like that allllll daaaay lonnnng! How does she get anything done? 

When I saw that all-important word on that blue stick, I cried happy tears as I hugged Husband in the kitchen. But the closer her due date came, the less I could imagine myself with one of those weird, squirmy, crying things. A baby! What was I thinking?! We weren't going to get any sleep! How would I get my schoolwork done? I barely had any energy by the end of the day anyway... how on earth was I going to entertain and care for a baby after an exhausting day of teaching? Besides, I didn't even like babies! Would I still be myself if I became a mom? Who would I become?

And then, ten month ago, she was born, and I had never seen anything so perfectly amazing or so exquisitely adorable.  I learned to take care of myself, to take care of her, and to feel a whole new kind of love. I learned why everyone loves babies, why those ladies didn't mind the hair-pulling and wiggles, and why all my friends with kids had been beside themselves when I got pregnant. There's nothing in the world like a baby to make your life better in ways you never even imagined. There's nothing like a baby to help you become your best self.

So congratulations, Ben, and welcome to the luckiest club in the world. You can't possibly dream of what's ahead. I don't know who your little sweetie will be, but I know who you will become, and I'm so happy for you.

Husband is a wonderful dad, and I know Ben will be too!