Brought to You Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue

This past week at school, a colleague of mine asked me if I was bothered by a student in his homeroom who questioned why we said the "Pledge of Allegiance." The student quipped,"When you say it every day, it doesn't really mean anything." I immediately responded, "Yes," which is ironic, given that in my thirteen years of schooling, I never once said the "Pledge of Allegiance." The average public school student theoretically recites this pledge over 2,300 times during his or her thirteen years in the system.  But being raised a Jehovah's Witness, I never participated in this daily ritual because I could not pledge allegiance to any government aside from one established by God. In grade school, on the first day of school, I would sheepishly sidle up to the teacher's front desk with my first day of school paperwork along with a handwritten note from my mom explaining our religious convictions and thanking the teacher for her anticipated cooperation. While most public schools expect students to recite the pledge every morning, the Supreme Court ruled that no student is required nor can be punished for not saying the pledge. Each morning at school, I would politely stand, hands by my side, as my classmates recited the pledge. As a child I was incredibly shy and obedient, and drawing attention to myself on the first day of school to break a "rule" was mortifying. When I entered fifth grade, my parents didn't write me a note but rather told me to proudly share my convictions with my teacher, Miss Brown, who routinely wore army fatigues to school. I can only imagine what she thought as I told her I wouldn't be reciting the pledge. As I matriculated from grade to grade, my abstinence from this morning routine became less and less noteworthy as my own classmates' enthusiasm for reciting the pledge waned. By my senior year of high school, my classmates' ennui for the pledge was palpable. After graduating high school, I knew I would never be placed in this awkward position again. Until I decided to become a teacher. When I did my student teaching, I informed my homeroom students they were required to say the pledge, but I would be refraining from doing so because of my religious beliefs. My students looked at me in confusion, but fortunately, they had already been exposed to the hypocrisy of their parents and other teachers and agreed to "do as I say, not as I do." Every morning, I prompted them with a nod of my head to stand for the pledge while I stood respectfully, hands by my side.

On my first day as a "real" teacher, a student announced over the PA system to stand for the pledge at 7:35. I stood with my students, placed my hand over my heart, and recited the words in a loud clear voice. Seeing I had listened to the words over 2,300 times, I had no trouble keeping up. Was it a life-changing moment? Not really. I did feel a little relieved. After thirteen plus years of having a spotlight on you every time those words were uttered, it took some time to overcome the Pavlovian response of my stomach churning with nerves. My first principal at that particular school felt strongly about students respecting the flag and the pledge. I remember being told to stop any student in the hallway to promote a sense of respect. We wanted the student body to respect their country and the opportunities afforded them by that country, namely the guarantee of a free education, but how introspective are teenagers at 7:35am?

One morning I do recall reciting the pledge was Wednesday, September 12, 2001. After watching the second airplane hit the World Trade Center on live TV with my eleventh graders the day before, I remember the heaviness in the air and my heart. As we stood and recited the pledge and paused for a longer moment of silence, I remember the co-mingling of sadness, fear, and anger. As we stood in solidarity, I reminded my students the best way to counter these attacks was to go about our routines and not allow the terrorists to instill us with terror.

Do I reflect as I say the pledge every morning? Many a morning I am caught off guard in the middle of my frenzied, frazzled dash to get ready for the school day as we are asked to rise.  Nevertheless, I try to set a good example by enthusiastically reciting the pledge while my students shuffle to their feet and half-hardheartedly recite the words. Some mornings I do think about the people who enable me to stand in that classroom. As I look at the flag, I consider my brother-in-law who has spent the past two decades in the Air Force, former students of mine who serve their country, and countless other individuals who would promptly protect our freedom, our liberty. Some mornings I ponder my grandfather, a straight A student who had to drop out of high school to help support his younger siblings, a relatively common injustice during his lifetime. I like to think that no student, straight A or not, would have to give up schooling without a fight today. I ponder the Life Skills students in our building who fifty years ago would have been denied an education and most likely institutionalized. I'm fortunate to have one such student in my homeroom. As we reviewed his spelling list on Friday morning, he told me he was going to fail his quiz with a glimmer in his eye. I quizzed him on all twenty words, he spelled all twenty correctly, and we both beamed with pride.

I contemplate the greatness of a country that aspires for liberty and justice for all. We are given the liberty to believe whatever we want, and in our schools, we encourage our students to be free thinkers. I recently just finished reading and discussing "The Flight of Icarus" with my seventh grade students. We considered the moral Greek children were to take away from the story--always listen to one's elders and respect the gods. They all nodded their heads at this sage advice. The next day, we then discussed  a poem about Icarus which suggests he rightfully tested the boundaries, pushed himself to his limits, overcame ignorance, and, yes, plummeted to his death. How could his father Daedalus have given him wings to fly and then tell him not use them? My students smiled and nodded as they contemplated the idea of pushing themselves to their limits and "breaking the rules" when they saw injustice.

In eighth grade, I remember reading The Diary of Anne Frank and contemplating how fortunate I was to live in a country that granted freedom of religion. Jehovah's Witnesses were targeted by the Nazis during World War II and nearly 1,500 Jehovah's Witnesses died in concentration camps or were executed. They could have simply signed a paper renouncing their faith to escape this fate, but for many, their beliefs were more important than their liberty. While I may no longer share those religious convictions, I recognize the importance of respecting and protecting people's beliefs.

In an attempt to heal a nation torn apart by a Civil War, Abraham Lincoln gave one of the shortest and most powerful speeches at Gettysburg to unite a country and grant liberty to people who had been enslaved. He famously uttered our country is a government "of the people, by the people, for the people" and as I "pledge allegiance" every morning to that country, I like to think I am making a pledge to myself to foster liberty and freedom in my students. Encouraging them to not only be free thinkers but consider the responsibility and respect implied with that freedom. While they may not consciously think about the meaning of the pledge the 2,300 times they say it, just like they don't think about breathing in and out 23,000 times over the course of the day, I hope at least once they pause to consider how fortunate they are to not only be alive but more importantly free.

The Road Taken

Even though a part of me believes, the universe will send you where you are meant to be, I strive to teach my children and students the importance of good choices and exercising your free will. In my life, I can certainly identify choices  that have "made all the difference." Shortly after graduating college, two schools in the Philadelphia suburbs offered me the opportunity to interview for teaching positions. I conveniently scheduled them for the same day. The first position was a long term sub in Delaware County. I felt I had a great interview, and the principal informed me the long term position would most likely lead to a contracted position the following year. I left the interview feeling elated knowing the job was mine, and pulled out the directions for my next interview. When I reached the junction of 476  near Plymouth Meeting, I got turned around and ended up on the Northeast Extension. I panicked knowing I had gone the wrong way. I knew by the time I turned around at the Lansdale exit and drove back to King of Prussia, I was going to be late for my job interview which is probably the worst first impression to make as a teacher whose life is dictated by the ringing of bells. I seriously contemplated just bagging the interview since I felt  confident I was getting a job offer. Nevertheless, I turned around at Lansdale, sped back down the Northeast Extension, and arrived at Upper Merion High School breathless and seven minutes late. Fortunately, they were running late too. I began my interview by relating the story of my awful sense of direction and two weeks later accepted a full time position at Upper Merion. I like to think the universe pushed in the right direction that day, since that one decision has led to some of my greatest blessings in life. Eight years after accepting that job, I made the choice to leave my position to stay home with my boys. Probably many would consider that a foolish mistake especially if they saw Upper Merion's pay scale. But I don't regret for one moment the the years I spent with my boys, and the universe nudged me once again last year in a new direction, and while the pay scale isn't quite as impressive, I couldn't ask for better students or coworkers who make me laugh, sometimes uncontrollably, each day.

But for this post, I wanted to take the time to reflect on a decision I made six years ago. Being a stay at home parent can be one of the most tedious and monotonous jobs replete with dirty diapers, vomiting, endless crying peppered with soul crushing moments of beauty. When my oldest son was nearing eighteen months, I decided we both needed a little more socialization. While it felt a bit contrived, I decided to try out a MOMs Group. I began to do a little research to see what groups were in my area. Who knew these clubs had "boundaries" and other rules? I discovered I lived within the "boundaries" of the MOMS Club of Collegeville and attended one of their monthly meetings. The women seemed friendly enough, so I filled out a waiver, wrote a check for $25, and hoped to make a friend or two. I requested to be put in a playgroup. Since most groups were either full or too old for my eighteen month old, I was told I would probably have to form a new group. I was given the name and email of another new member with an eighteen month old who lived in my townhouse development--our backyards less than 500 yards from one another; although, our paths had never crossed. We set up a time to meet at the playground in our development, and I remember feeling so nervous. It was like going on a first date. I tried my best to be funny and witty and keep Nate's finger out of his nose. After our first playdate, we decided each other was normal enough or maybe dysfunctional in the same way, and set up another time to get together. A few weeks later, another member of the club decided to join us and six months later our foursome was complete. For nearly four years, we met up once a week to play at each other's homes and that day was often the highlight of my week. We commiserated over the joys and trials of our calling, jokingly complained about our wonderful husbands who indulged the financial folly of our chosen vocation, and bonded over our shared love of coffee, raunchy TV, and most importantly our children.

Whenever we were approached about adding another mom to our group, we always deferred saying our group was full since three of the four of us lived in townhouses and our combined eight children were a force of destruction ransacking our respective homes until every toy was strewn across the floor. I think we all felt protective of our bond and worried the comfortable ease of our group might be disturbed.

Along with our weekly play dates, we often met up at the playground, Dunkin Donuts, Chik Fil A, and other child friendly places so our children could play, and we could chat. We planned Valentine'sparties for our little ones, setup a Christmas exchange, and celebrated all our kids' birthdays. One of my fondest memories from our playgroup days include the summer we planned a Summer Camp for our kids. During our four weeks of camp, each of us planned crafts, activities and a field trip which kept our kids busy and gave us a little break from being a mom for the morning. We also looked forward to our monthly "MOMs Night Out" where we could really relax without our children. I still smile when I think of one particular MNO when I arrived home to my husband sitting on the couch at 2:30am feeling like a guilty teenager who missed curfew--sometimes you just lose track of time and your phone.

It's been over eight months since I've attended a MOMs Club Event. My babies aren't really babies anymore. I received my last "Weekly Update" from the club since my membership expired as of September 1st which made me a little emotional. In Arthur Miller's play Death of a Salesman, Willie's wife Linda tells him, "Life is a casting off." A profound, sad and accurate observation of the human experience. With the passage of time, we change, grow, and evolve and unfortunately leave things and sometimes people behind. It's time for me to cast off from a group that helped fill some lonely days and keep my sanity.

I no longer see my playgroup friends on a weekly basis. Our daily lives are now busy with school, work, soccer practices, Girl Scouts, homework, and figurative and literal laundry lists.  But we still manage to stay connected, and I'm always impressed how quickly we can return to that comfortable camaraderie we once shared. We periodically share photos on Facebook of our babies when they were babies, and we all feel a little weepy. We send a quick text to wish one another luck as we
embark on a new life journey or just to make sure the kids had a good first week at school. This morning I smiled as I watched my boys play with two of their playgroup friends who slept over last night and left the floor littered with toys like the good old days.  I like to think the universe would have found another way for me to meet these wonderful women, but I'm glad I made that choice six years ago.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Whenever I hear Andy Williams velvety voice enthusiastically bellowing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," I don't think of Christmas; rather, I think of the Staples commercial with a father joyfully skipping down the school supply aisle as his children trudge behind him with a sense of impending doom. I know some of you may be disturbed by this but the start of the school year for me is as exciting as Christmas, maybe even more exciting. Fact Number One: I am a big nerd. Fact Number Two: I love school. As a kid, I loved going shopping for my new school supplies. I could spend hours looking at mechanical pencils, debating the pros and cons of erasable pens, and fawning over notebooks with lilac paper. The smell of Mr. Sketch Markers and Sharpies, the only high I craved. I sometimes feel a little guilty that I enjoy my job too much. I sometimes want to be like the other "cool kids" and nod my head in solidarity that this "working for the man" is totally lame. And while I sometimes feel school administrators* try to suck my joy and overwhelm me during our opening in-service week, I have perfected my selective hearing skills which enables me to start the year with my joy and excitement mostly intact. I've been thinking about what I am most excited about as I start a new school year. I'm excited about having my own classroom this year. Last year, I floated through four different classrooms which was a new (and enlightening) experience for me as I learned to use the bare essentials. I'm excited to meet my new students and see some of my seventh graders from last year in my eighth grade classes. While last year proved to be a challenging year for me for many different reasons, I honestly adored my students and had one of the best years in my career thus far. But for those of you who know me best, I am probably most excited about getting to wear my cute clothes--both old and new.

Clothes. Call me vain. Call me superficial. I love pretty clothes. I attribute my love of clothes to my wonderfully stylish mother. As a little girl, I remember trailing my fingertips over the clothes that filled her closet and marveled at how she carefully curated her wardrobe. My mother worked as a bank teller before bank tellers had to wear those awful sweater vests and oxford shirts, and a significant amount of my mother's part-time job earnings fueled her penchant for clothes and her ultimate Kryptonite--shoes. Every day she went to work, she meticulously selected her clothes which she always capped off with a great pair of shoes. Growing up, my mother and I bonded over shopping. I loved nothing better than a day spent trying on clothes and the high of finding a great deal coupled with a brief stop for a slice of pizza from Dino's at the Wyoming Valley Mall. At least once a year, we would head to the Tannersville Outlets for the ultimate binge shopping extravaganza usually in preparation for the upcoming school year. We had a budget and a mission to find the best deals, and typically left after a day of shopping feeling exhausted and satisfied.

Do clothes make the man or woman? No. But to me clothes are important. I still associate clothes shopping with those wonderful days bonding with my mother not only looking for good deals but spending time with my mom.  While I always felt the genetic pool had denied me the code to my mother's beauty, I did inherit her innate sense of style. Through my awful, awkward, chunky, crooked-teethed pre-teen and teenage years, I seldom felt pretty, but I at least felt a little more confident armored in my clothes which concealed my all too real and sometimes perceived flaws. I may not have been cute but at least I was wearing cute clothes. While some women expend their energies trying to impress the opposite sex with their clothing choices or other women, I am mostly trying to impress myself. I spend many evenings scrolling through Pinterest to decompress, mostly looking at clothes, and I came across the following quote in my feed, "Beauty is being the best possible version of yourself  on the inside and out" and thought this quote succinctly encompasses my attitude towards fashion and myself.

As I prepare for my first day of school with students on Monday, I have been busily prepping my new classroom. I also have started the process of prepping new curriculum for my classes which has left me feeling slightly stressed. When I feel stressed, my two best stress relievers are running and shopping. So on Wednesday, when I felt overwhelmed at my curriculum meeting, I opted for what I like to call a "working" lunch and went in search of an H&M skirt I had scoped out in a magazine a few weeks ago. Alas, the store in the Exton Mall no longer carried the skirt, but have no fear, I scored a different skirt, okay maybe two, and went back to my meeting feeling a little happier after my retail therapy. I'm still vacillating between the H&M skirt or the cute brown dress I picked up a few weeks ago for $14.99 at the Outlets for the first day of school? Yes, it's the hap-happiest season of all.

*Note: When I reference "school administrators," I am not referencing my wonderful building principals. They put the "pal" in principal.

Summertime And the Livin's Easy?

Tomorrow marks the start of week three of Summer Vacation, and I finally feel like I've found my stride. After a rather harried nine months of teaching four preps, selling our house, and moving into a new house, I spent the first few days of summer vacation not knowing what to do with myself. No papers to grade, no lessons to plan, and our home improvement projects put on hold until Painter John could squeeze us in to his busy schedule, I felt a bit "lazy" reading for pleasure, catching up with old friends, and making a dent in our summer bucket list. Have no fear, I am adaptable and have shifted gears into summer mode--eight full weeks of nothing but Saturdays is not the reason why I became a teacher, but it's one awesome perk.

As we prepped to head out on our first of three mini-vacations this past holiday weekend, I reached in to the pocket of my wall calendar and pulled out the ominous paper that appeared in my mail a few weeks earlier from the Montgomery County Courthouse with that filthy five letter word written in all caps set against a red background--JUROR. Bloody hell, I have Jury Duty. My initial instinct was to vent my "outrage" at being selected for jury duty on Facebook, but I refrained. Whining about jury duty is so cliche. It's been a few years since I've turned 18, and this is the first time I've been called on to serve--not too shabby. It's summer, so I can't complain about the inconvenience of missing work or finding child care for my children. And when I received the summons, I immediately recalled my friends and neighbor who were all called to "serve" and never had to report. On Thursday after 4pm, I pulled out my laptop, logged on to the website, typed in my Juror ID Number and Electronic Signature and in the spirit of a contestant on Press Your Luck silently chanted "No Whammies! No Whammies!" WHAMMY! YOU ARE REQUIRED TO REPORT for jury service. My eight weeks of Saturdays interrupted by a "Monday" of jury duty.

I am hopeful tomorrow I will be deemed too smart, or I'm even okay with being deemed too much of a simpleton to serve on a jury. I selfishly would rather finish reading The Book Thief in the Montgomery County Courthouse versus listening to attorneys prattle on and on. I am imagining most trials fall short of the excitement of all those John Grisham novels I devoured as a teenager and lack the entertainment value of The Good Wife or even Law and Order.  Although after having taught 12 Angry Men for eight years and given my current consumption of Orange is the New Black, I feel I am an expert in the nuances of my civic duty and crime and punishment. Maybe if I vehemently highlight these "qualifications" I will ensure my exclusion from any jury panel.

Here's to hoping I get to read my book, enjoy lunch at Taco Mike's a few blocks down from the courthouse tomorrow, and continue my "livin' easy" summer. But if this is not the case, I will hopefully leave the courthouse with an entertaining story to share.

Screw You Mother Nature

The past few weeks, my life has been consumed primarily by the following: working on cleaning and painting our new house, packing up and clearing out all of the "stuff" we amassed over the nine years we lived in our townhouse, poorly planning my boys' birthday parties, and trying to keep the interest of 125 middle schoolers as summer looms just out of their (and my) reach. In all honesty, I have been doing a mediocre job at best, which when you factor in my optimistic viewpoint, in all reality means I've been doing a pretty terrible job in every facet of my life.  And in case you hadn't noticed, I haven't written a post for my blog in roughly three weeks. So much for my goal of a weekly post through the end of the school year. Yes, I am a slacker with a capital "S". 

As I looked at my Facebook feed Sunday night before bed, I felt depressed--a failure at life. As all my "friends" were out enjoying the beautiful weather-- running or enjoying time with their beautiful children doing fun, whimsical activities, I contemplated what I had accomplished over my weekend. I attended three baseball games in less than 24 hours, worked the hot dog roller in the Little League Snack Stand, and finally scrubbed the shower in our new home to the point where it no longer feels like a frat house shower. Not exactly sucking the marrow out of life, but rather, feeling like a pretty sucky parent and participant in life in general.

As I contemplated what would make me feel less sucky, I decided the best way to lift my spirits and improve my mood was to go for a run after work on Monday. Now that we've moved, if I bolt out of school at the end of my day, I have about thirty-five minutes until Nate gets dropped off by his bus at Josh's day-care to squeeze in a run. As I set out on the trail, I reflected that it had been almost three weeks since I had run. Granted I've been working out plenty by painting, scrubbing away at two years of dirt left behind by the generous tenants who use to occupy our house, carrying boxes upon boxes, and running up and down flights of stairs in a whirlwind of purposeful, organizing fury, I haven't taken the time to go for a run to not just burn some extra calories but more importantly to clear my head. As I set out on the trail listening to my Eric Church playlist, I felt the stress and tension leaving my body and marveled at the beauty of the wild blue bells creating a purple carpet in the woods surrounding the trail.

After this ridiculous winter, I smiled to think how at least in my estimation Mother Nature had finally redeemed herself. I recently wrapped up a unit on Greek Mythology with my seventh graders, and we discussed how the Greeks used their gods to explain the natural phenomena around them. The Greek gods used their powers to rule the universe and primarily acted selfishly,cruelly and vindictively. Several times this past winter I have pondered what exactly have we done to make Mother Nature so angry and vindictive? Was it the pact I made with my fellow colleague not to wear a coat to school for the entire winter? Was Mother Nature just doing her best to garner our attention and remind us how powerful she is? Perhaps Mother Nature was pulling one from Fatal Attraction's Alex Forrest--"I'm not going to be ignored."  After my run, I inwardly acknowledged how the beauty and splendor had restored my spirit and soothed my soul. Thank you Mother Nature.

A mere two days later though, as I drove in the torrential rain and arrived home to find a gaping hole in the basement wall exposing the hairline crack in our foundation where rain water was steadily seeping in to our finished basement--the crack the contractor was scheduled to come and fix the next morning, I thought, "Mother Nature, why do you have to be such a bitch?"

Home Sweet Home

Last Saturday, we celebrated Nate's birthday at our townhouse for the last time. One of my very best friends asked me as she dropped off her son how I was feeling about this being the last party in our townhouse. Did I feel sad? I smiled, shook my head, and laughed, "Not really." I feel a little guilty about not feeling sadder. My poor townhouse. She's been a good house. I recognize she has no feelings; although if she did, she would obviously be a girl. While she has been a good home, I always knew this relationship wasn't meant to last. While I did love her when we first moved in, I always knew we would leave her.

We purchased our townhouse in May 2005. Knowing we would like to start a family and feeling pretty confident that I wanted to stay at home for at least a few years with our future children, we opted for a modest starter home. When we were moving in, I was most excited about having our own washer and dryer on the second floor. After nearly six and a half years of begrudgingly sharing a laundry room with inconsiderate apartment dwellers who often left their unmentionables for far too long in the washer or dryer, I was delighted by the prospect of doing laundry whenever I felt compelled without trudging up and down several flights of stairs. What can I say, I'm a simple girl.

Over the past nine years, we have completed a lot of home improvement projects and done our best to make this house feel like a home. As we remodeled room after room though, my thought process was always, "What would be the most cost-effective, universally appealing way to improve this room?" Given our townhouse sold in less than a month, I think we did a pretty good job.

So what will I miss about 110 Pin Oak Court? I asked my husband this question last week, and he paused to think for quite a while before responding, "Having trash pick-up twice a week?" He has been carefully plotting our escape plan and dreaming of a two car garage, bigger yard, and a shed for more than a few years. He also isn't the most sentimental of men. What will I miss about our first home? I will certainly miss a few of our neighbors. I will most certainly miss the beautiful Perkiomen Trail which runs through the middle of our development. Over the past three years, I have fallen in love with the two and a half mile stretch that I sincerely never grow tired of running. While some may find it boring to run the same stretch of trail, I am completely enamored with its ever-changing beauty. I marvel when the buds first gather on the branches in early spring, the lush canopy of trees provide a welcome respite from the summer sun, and in the fall, how could a person not be impressed by nature's autumnal show? I must admit, I'm partial to the winter trail. I love running in the invigorating cold, and the woods that surround the trail remind me of my childhood when I would help my dad cut down trees for our wood burning stove and tap maple trees for syrup.

I can muster a slight twinge of nostalgia for our little townhouse, when I think of when we brought our little babies home from the hospital and officially became a family here. But as I marvel at how much my boys have grown over the past seven years, I know the time has come for our family to move on to a bigger home with a wonderful driveway for playing basketball, a cul-de-sac for street hockey, and a sloped yard that should be absolutely perfect for an awesome slip n slide. I am so excited to start making hopefully decades of memories in our new home.

In two weeks, we will officially say good-bye to 110 Pin Oak Court. She has been a good home, and I hope her next owners treat her well. While she was not our one and only, I will do my best to respect her and remember her fondly.

Stardust Memories

Sixteen years ago today, my amazingly spectacular grammy passed away. My earliest clear memory from my childhood was at the age of four when my grammy married my step-grandfather. If I close my eyes, I can perfectly recall the white dress with the tiny pink, blue and yellow flowers all over it, the accordion pleats, and the way the skirt would lift as I twirled around. On the morning of her wedding, my grammy gave me my first pair of diamond stud earrings. They were chips, but I was dazzled by the real diamonds which my grammy always chirped, "were a girl's best friend." On my mantle is a picture of me wearing that dress photobombing before there was such a thing, as my grammy and grandfather cut their wedding cake.

My grammy by no means was a traditional grandmother, and I loved her all the more for it. She wasn't a very good cook, baking wasn't her thing, and the words shit, damn, and hell often fell from her mouth over the course of the day. She typically followed up her verbal slips with a sly smile and with a twinkle in her eye she would say, "Pardon my French." I always knew such words were off limits for my own personal vocabulary. 

My grandparents owned an apple orchard, and many of my memories are tied to the farm. Growing up, I spent plenty of time helping out on the farm. In the late spring and early summer we picked strawberries, blueberries, and attended to my grammy's extensive herb and vegetable garden. In the peak of summer, we picked peaches, pears, and prunes, and when those late summer days were tinged with the cool crispness of the impending fall, we began the ongoing task of harvesting the different variety of apples they grew in their orchard. During the summer, I spent at least one day of the week with my grammy and on weekends it was not uncommon for my entire family to lend my grandparents a hand. I was not always overly enthusiastic at the start of the morning when my grammy would run through our "Plan of Attack" for the day. It almost always involved outdoor physical labor until lunch time followed by a short rest and then usually working around the house. My grandparents didn't have cable and using the bunny ears on top of their TV, they could sometimes get a clear picture from one local affiliate and the local PBS channel if the wind was blowing in just the right direction, so TV viewing was never really a viable option, but I honestly didn't mind. My grammy made work fun. She could make anything fun. Her enthusiasm for life was contagious. From an early age, she taught me the value of hard work by paying me 50 cents for dusting or $1.00 for picking apples. She kept a running tally on a slip of paper of the money she owed me in her cookie jar, and when I went on vacation or wanted to buy a new book, she would pay me my hard earned salary. She also encouraged me to cultivate my own interests and hobbies by signing me up for a summer French class and art lessons. I wasn't a fan of the French, but I loved taking art classes, which became one of my favorite hobbies. She always reminded me of the importance of being smart and doing well in school. I can still recall the summer between second and third grade writing my times tables ten times each as she made lunch for my grandfather and her quizzing me periodically, "What's seven times seven?" Those sevens tripped me up for a few weeks, but by the end of summer, I knew all my multiplication facts up to twelve times twelve.  

I always loved when I would go to my grammy's on Fridays. Fridays were typically "delivery days" which meant we would ride around in her station wagon in the mornings, and there was the possibility of us spending some of the spoils from the deliveries. We would deliver fresh herbs and fruit to some local grocery stores and restaurants, which was one facet of my grandparents' livelihood. After deliveries, my grammy would sometimes treat us to lunch, and on many occasions, we stopped at the local dairy to pick up milk and two chocolate peanut butter ice cream cones which we enjoyed as the breeze blew in the windows of my grammy's station wagon as Doris Day sang in the background.

My grammy almost always had a smile on her face and a zest for life, which I loved as a child and have a greater appreciation for now as an adult. My grammy found herself a widow at the age of thirty with three children after watching her husband defeated by his illness. While my grammy did have the support of family, her life was by no means easy during this time which could have easily left her bitter or unhappy for the rest of her life. From personal experience, I have seen others allow their lot in life lead them to live a life of negativity and question "Why me?" But, instead, she made the choice to find the beauty in life and made the choice to be happy in spite of sadness. 

Shortly before my sixteenth birthday, my grammy and my great aunt took my cousin and I on a terrifically memorable trip to London and Paris. We strolled through Harrad's, and my grammy's eyes were like saucers as she looked at the decadent desserts in the bakery. Her lunch that afternoon was comprised entirely of desserts. In fact, several meals my grammy enjoyed were almost entirely comprised of desserts. I remember after we touched down in Paris in the late afternoon, my grammy insisting we go steal at least a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower even if it meant we were late for our dinner reservation. Her face lit up as she gazed at it for the first time, and the following day we enjoyed the breathtaking view of Paris from atop it. We later strolled around the gardens at Versailles, and my grammy jokingly contemplated how she could replicate the same garden in her side yard. While those grandiose gardens were spectacular, I know she was supremely satisfied with her own simple flower garden and the flowers she plucked from it which often graced her kitchen window sill. No matter how great or small, the beauty and joy in life could always be found.

In the late summer of 1997, almost four years after burying her second husband who succumbed to cancer, my grammy wasn't feeling well. Completely out of character for her, she didn't have the same energy she once did, and her back was always aching. After having her gall bladder removed with no significant improvement to her discomfort, we began to worry. My grammy never complained about anything, so we knew something was seriously wrong. My brother, mother and I took her to a medical center in Hershey for some tests, and the doctors discovered she had pancreatic cancer. The oncologist's prognosis was two to four months without treatment and four to six months with treatment. After a few treatments and suffering from the debilitating side effects, my grammy opted for quality over quantity. 

Knowing her days were numbered, we all made the most of the time left. Juggling my eighteen credits, tutoring at the Writing Center, and working fifteen hours at my part-time job, I would make a point of stopping to visit my grammy before dinner almost every day. I would stop by to check in to see if she needed help and fill her in on the happenings of my day which she listened to attentively. Her physical deterioration progressed; although, she did her best to stay positive. I remember stopping one afternoon when she was particularly weak, and her asking me to help her get in the shower. I told her I didn't think it was a good idea, especially since the trained nurse would be there in the morning to help her. I felt terrible denying her request, but I honestly didn't think I had the physical strength to help her. My grammy was tenacious, and she was going to take a shower with or without my help. As she tried to lift her body off the couch, I conceded and supported her weight. As she slipped out of her clothes, I felt the tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I, of course, knew my grandmother had lost a lot of weight as her clothes now hung from her frame, but seeing the shriveled body of a woman who was once so robust and full of life, my heart sunk. As she showered and supported her weight against the wall of the shower, she heaved a great sigh of relief.  I wrapped her lovingly in the towel which engulfed her frame,and as she turned around and met my gaze, she said, "I feel like a new woman ready to face the day." I smiled and thought about it being 4:30 in the afternoon, the day almost over. But something as simple as a shower could lift my grammy's mood.

Another afternoon while visiting my grandmother and talking about school, she casually mentioned how if she had had the opportunity to go to college, she had always thought she would've been an English teacher. Nearing the end of my junior year of college and knowing I would be student teaching the following year as an English teacher at a local high school, I looked at her with a watery smile.

On Saturday, March 21, 1998, she took her final labored breaths as her first born son and first born grandson held her hands. A week later, we mourned her death with friends and family, which she specifically told us not to do, but we also respected her wishes to celebrate her life and toasted her with the case of champagne she bought shortly after she learned of her terminal illness. We shared stories about her beautiful spirit, and I will always remember a neighbor who said my grammy had the ability to make you feel like the most important person in the room. I count that among her many gifts.

Sixteen years have passed. I can't recall the cadence of my grammy's voice anymore. I yearn for her physical presence, but that of course, isn't possible. Seldom a day passes I don't think of her. She would've turned 84 this past New Year's Day, and I always thought she would have lived well in to her 90's given her spirit.  I am grateful for all she taught me. In the deck of life, everyone is dealt varying degrees of heartbreak, sadness and challenges, which may make us feel powerless, but we can always control what we do with those cards. Happiness is always a choice a person can make even in the most difficult of situations. I also learned it doesn't so much matter where you are in life, as much as it matters who you are with. When you are standing beside someone you love, care or respect, the job you're doing doesn't quite matter as much. My grammy told me that when she was a little girl, she told her own grandmother who made her pull weeds in the garden that when she grew up, she would never pull weeds. Her grandmother responded, "Audrey, you know what's going to happen to you? You're going to fall in love with a farmer." My grammy married not one but two farmers. I know she enjoyed working outside, but she more importantly enjoyed working side by side with my grandfather. Likewise, I would gladly go back to the late afternoon in Paris when we spied the Eiffel Tower for the first time, but I would honestly be equally happy to just sit at my grammy's kitchen desk writing my multiplication tables if I could spend just one more afternoon with her. 

I feel particularly sad when I think that starting this year, I'll have more years of memories without her than with her. But when I miss her especially, I will wear the earrings she gave me the day she married my grandfather and the beautiful diamond pendant my grandfather gave her as a symbol of how precious she was to him. After all, "diamonds are a girl's best friend." Although, it was always clear who was her best friend. I will think of her when I eat chocolate peanut butter ice cream and when I look at my toes. I remember when my mother pointed out years ago, I had my grammy's feet, I certainly didn't view it as a compliment. But now when I look down and note the shape of my toes, I think of her and the connection and grounding we share. In one of my favorite essays, "Writing Three Thank-You Letters," Alex Haley writes about a letter he wrote to his own grandmother one Thanksgiving while he was in the service where he thanked her for having "sprinkled [his] life with stardust." I am so thankful for all the stardust my grammy sprinkled on my life.  

Here Comes the Sun

One of my colleagues reminded me that this weekend it's time to change our clocks, music to my ears. For most of my life, I always preferred the fall time change. As a little kid, the time change meant I could stay up an hour later; as a teenager, it made my 11 o'clock curfew midnight, which was a much more respectable curfew in my teenage opinion; and in my twenties it meant another hour at the bar, which obviously meant another beer. Who doesn't want or need an extra hour in their day? The possibilities on what to do with that extra hour-- endless. Although in most cases, I spent it having an extra hour of fun followed by some good sleep.

My joy in the "falling back" though disappeared after having children. Before I had children, when parents would complain about the time change, I would respond with, "Just put them to bed an hour later." It's simple mathematics. However, when I had my own children, I quickly learned reason and logic, well, they run contrary to the daily business of raising children. After spending months establishing a clear, definite sleep pattern, the extra hour was no longer a blessing but a cruel, ridiculous curse. After changing the clock, I would hear the cries of my first born and look blearily at the clock which read 5:00 am. His body clock told him it was time to go, while my body clock told me it was time roll over. Some mornings I would bring him in to bed with me in hopes the warmth of the bed and the familiar smell of mommy would lull him back to sleep, which never seemed to happen. He would stare back at me with big, bright eyes and smile, and I would begrudgingly begin my day in the dark. These "shorter" days ironically seemed interminably long.

 Before my children, the shorter days meant longer evenings watching TV or reading a good book curled up on the couch. After children, the shorter days meant longer evenings trapped inside the house trying to sap their boundless energy--an exercise in futility. Our two favorite activities on long winter evenings included "Pillow Pile" which involved pulling all the cushions off our couch and loveseat while the boys would precariously balance on the arm of the loveseat and gleefully dive into the cushions over and over and over again. Our second favorite indoor winter activity was called "Running Songs" where we would blast music videos and race around the house in the dark with glow sticks. I consider it a small miracle that we have avoided the ER for the past five winters.  

To say this winter has been "a long, cold lonely" one is quite frankly the understatement of the year or perhaps this century. But I have noted the past few weeks the increasing glow of light in the mornings as I drive in to work, a welcome sign that spring will be here soon; although, not soon enough for most of us. 

Even though I will be losing an hour of sleep this Saturday night, I know I will wake up on Sunday morning with a spring in my step, and there's a pretty good chance the clock will read 8:00 am instead of 5:00 am when I hear the pitter-patter of my children's feet. I know I'll be plunged back into the darkness for a few weeks during my morning commute, but I will gladly make this sacrifice for the daylight after dinner, the prospect of the fresh air that tires my children out, and the happy laughter of them playing with the neighbors. 

Last week as I was driving in to work, I found myself subconsciously humming The Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun" and released a great sigh. This simple song so fully encapsulates my physical and mental state, and I know soon it will feel "all right."

A Simple Kind of Life

Two weekends ago, a few girlfriends and I headed out to Deuce's Wild for a much needed Girls' Night Out. If you told me ten years ago I would excitedly and willingly go to a "country music" night club, sing along to the music, and enjoy myself, I would've responded with a sarcastic, "Not gonna happen."

Growing up I loathed country music with every fiber of my being.  My father, who was and still is a farmer at heart, loved to torture my brother and I by waking us up on Sunday mornings to the twangy tunes of Froggy 101, the local country music station in good old Scranton, PA. I would roll over in my bed, pull my pillow tightly over my head, and groan in pain as my ears began to bleed. Country music was like nails on a chalkboard, and in spite of my father's best efforts to teach his daughter to appreciate country music, my anti-country stance would remain firmly entrenched for years.

When I first met my husband, I counted among his few flaws his love of country music.  He, fortunately, had an eclectic music palate, so it wasn't a true deal breaker. We negotiated a contract where no country music was played while I was riding in the car with him. My husband did manage to negotiate a country music detente at one point, and I agreed to attend a Toby Keith concert with him and his brother. Before the show began, the sprinkler system at the then Tweeter Center accidentally came on. Luckily, I was almost sitting directly on top of a sprinkler and spent the entire show shivering due to my soaking shirt and jeans. It was awesome. As we left the venue that evening, I cursed country music and renewed my vow of hating the genre with a new vigor.

In April 2007, about seven weeks after his birth, my beautiful, blue eyed-baby boy Nate began to cry with abandon, pulling his legs up tightly to his core. Colic. Anyone who has had a colicky baby knows you will do ANYTHING to stop the crying. I have never felt so helpless and frustrated in my entire life. Almost every night from 7:00 to 9:30 for two and a half months, he cried and cried and cried. We tried different bottles, different formulas, Mylicon, Gripe Water, and any and every suggestion anyone gave us. Anything to stop the crying. I vividly recall one epic-ally horrible evening when my husband had an Awards Banquet to attend. Feeling frustrated, angry and helpless, I loaded my screaming baby into the car and began to drive up and down 422 in hopes the drive would lull him to sleep, one of the tactics which had worked in the past. After twenty-five minutes of screaming, I pulled in to the Target parking lot and went in to the store to buy a different brand of formula. As my son continued to wail in the store, the clerk looked at me sympathetically and said, "Someone's hungry." I shook my head as tears pooled in my eyes, and thought, "If only it were that simple."   

Most evenings during this two and a half month trial, we discovered the best method to soothe him. Holding him vertically in our arms, placing the precise amount of pressure on his tummy and swaying him back and forth in our living room, we would pass Nate back and forth. One evening as I was switching laundry upstairs, a momentary reprieve from the crying and fussing, my husband turned on CMT and continued to sway back and forth to the music. When I returned downstairs, my husband jested, "I think he likes country music. He's not crying." I rolled my eyes. But I was a defeated woman, and if country music stopped the crying, I was okay with it. An hour later, Nate finally drifted off to sleep, and so began our evening colicky ritual. I, of course, would gripe to my husband how ridiculous Taylor Swift was whining about her stupid, histrionic "teardrops on [her] guitar," but then again her whining was slightly better than crying.

Over the next two months though I inevitably began to sing along to some of the songs. They were catchy. And the next thing I knew, I started to enjoy country music.

At the time, I think I began to enjoy country music because the genre in many ways reflected my life at that time. Country music is simple, and so was my life then. Now when I use the word simple, I do not by any means mean easy. I have been a teacher for nine years and have become frustrated or upset to the point of crying probably five times. During my six years as a full-time stay at home mom, it was a good week if I made it through with only breaking down in tears five times. When I say simple to describe my life then, I mean uncomplicated. My simple, uncomplicated goal every day was the same--do everything in my power to make this small human being happy.

Similarly, country music tends to focus on the basic, simple common emotions of the human experience--the sheer bliss of falling in love, the pain of losing a love, or the complete satisfaction of keying that cheating ass hole's brand new truck who you thought was your true love. During many of those long days, country music filled the void of silence in between my one-sided conversations with my son. I heeded the lyrics of Trace Adkins and Darius Rucker who reminded me, "you're gonna miss this" and "it won't be like this for long." Nate will turn seven this month and while I certainly don't miss those colicky days, I did make sure to enjoy all those moments in between the crying--the toothless smiles, the belly laughs that shook his whole body, and the afternoons spent on the couch with his warm body pressed to mine as he peacefully napped. Those moments carried me through the long days. And on the exceptionally rough days when those moments weren't enough, well, I could always follow the sage advice available in country music regarding the healing powers of a cold beer, a couple glasses of wine, or a margarita. Some days I could have used the trifecta.

This past Sunday morning, I came downstairs to find my husband reading the newspaper with CMT on the TV. I paused to think how so many years ago, the sound of country music on a Sunday morning made me bristle. Now country music makes me feel a little nostalgic for those "simple" days and still reminds me to enjoy those simple wonderful moments--whether they be with my beautiful family, my wonderful friends, or an ice cold beer.

Dammit, What's My Age Again?

Driving into work a few weeks ago, I was listening to the radio and Blink 182's  "Dammit (Growing Up)" came on.  A smile spread across my face as I reached over to blast the song as loud as my Honda Odyssey's stereo would allow.  The levels of irony are not lost on me here people. I hadn't heard this song in years, but the memories attached to that particular song left me feeling happy and light as I headed in to teach a 125 seventh and eighth graders. In the Spring of 1998, my three girlfriends and I went to the DC Chili Cookoff to see Everclear, Blink 182, Smash Mouth, and some other bands.  While the show was great, what most sticks in my mind was our unplanned "detour."  We decided to take public transportation and thought we had read the subway map correctly.  As we confidently walked down the street bantering with one another, a cute college boy called out, "What are four white girls doing walking down this street?"  

We turned and giggled, "Dude, we're heading to the DC Chili Cookoff to see Everclear. You want to come with us?"  

"Are you sure about that?" 

We stopped in our tracks and looked at one another. Fortunately, this kind stranger stopped us from continuing down the street.  Apparently, we were heading into a part of town four naive white girls should avoid even on a beautiful May afternoon. Since it was before the days of cell phones, he ran inside to call his buddy from his home phone, who was heading to the same show. No, I do not believe it was a rotary phone. We arrived at the show unscathed forty-five minutes later and giggled about our near adventure on the "wrong side of town" for months afterwards.

I remember growing up listening to the radio while riding in the car with my Mom and her smiling, "This song reminds me of a dance when" or "this song reminds me of when your brother was a baby," and she would trail off describing some fond memory from her past. When I was kid, I was mystified by how music could stir from the depths of her mind memories, but now at the age of thirty-six, I totally get it. In his song "Springsteen," Eric Church sings, "funny how a melody sounds like a memory." I feel a day seldom passes a melody doesn't stir up mostly fond, sometimes bittersweet, and occasionally sad memories which reminds me I've got a few years on me.

Even though I'm getting older, I don't feel old. One morning I was hanging out with a dear friend of mine who commented on how different she feels now that she's thirty-six. She noted she feels her age. I nodded acknowledging her perspective, but in all honesty, I either don't feel my age or thirty-six feels pretty awesome. 

I acknowledge I'm getting older. In the drawer of my nightstand, I have dark spot corrector, anti-wrinkle eye cream, and anti-wrinkle moisturizer which I slather on my face nightly crossing my fingers hoping they will stymie the aging process. I notice a few gray strands intermixed with my highlights. When I sit at the Phillies' game with my husband, I turn to him in disbelief, "Really... I'm older than that guy?" Probably with the exception of Bobby Abreu, I'm older than almost every single player on the team, and everyone in Philadelphia gripes, "Those guys stink because they're all so freakin' old!" I've noticed my celebrity crushes from fifteen years ago are looking a little oldish, and my current celebrity crush, Joseph Gordon-Levitt is nearly four years my junior. I don't feel too creepy; we at least could have attended high school together. I look at Julia Roberts who I felt was the epitome of beauty when I was a teenager, and she still looks great but her looks great is now qualified by the phrase "for her age." She's got a solid ten years on me, but really if I looked half as good as her in ten years, I'd count myself lucky and so would my husband.

I love when People Magazine comes out with their "Most Beautiful People" issue. I invariably turn to the page titled "Beauty at Every Age" where the editors display pictures of starlets starting at the age of twenty and work their way through the decades. I gaze at the "beautiful" women at every age and of course pay special attention to the women who are my age. This year, I noted I am the same age as Kerry Washington, who is stunning. Sure there are plenty of beautiful women who are younger than her, but Kerry Washington exudes a confidence that most twenty-somethings don't.  In my twenties, often when I wore high heels in my classroom in hopes of seeming slightly more imposing than my five foot three and a half, I always felt like I was playing "dress-up" in my Mom's closet. Now when I wear heels, I feel like a grown woman. I look at pictures of myself from my twenties, and of course see the passage of time. I wish I could travel back and slap myself up the side of the head for ever worrying about if my stomach was flat enough, or can I really pull off wearing a bikini? Why couldn't I see then what I see now in those pictures? When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I'm certainly not as youthful as I once was, but I'm smarter and more self-assured which I realize is more important.

Most days, I think I feel around twenty-five; although, I can easily slip into feeling and acting like a twelve year old. It's one of the job hazards that comes with teaching middle schoolers who find humor in the silliest and stupidest things, and I love it. 

I firmly believe age is only a number, and a person is only as old as they feel. I recognize these are cliches, but cliches are cliches because they bear some truth.

Between Christmas and New Year's, we traditionally host a party with some wonderful friends. One of my former students and his wife come along with his parents. We befriended my former student's parents while he was still in high school, and our friendship with his parents continued after he graduated. They came to our wedding; we went to their son's wedding, and now we all see each other; although, not often enough from my perspective. The four of them are usually the last to leave our party and thinking of the ridiculous conversations and antics that transpire makes me smile as I write this.  My husband and I fall somewhere in between their ages, but since we share similar life views, values, and humor, the age difference fades into the background, and we purely just enjoy each other's company.

Probably Blink 182's most famous song is "What's My Age Again?"--a song that by the way evokes the memory of the first boy I ever fell in love with, which has become less bitter and more sweet with the passage of time-- and my response to that question changes on a daily basis, dependent on my mood and my circumstances. My goal though is to never feel my age. To always feel younger than the number which quantifies my years on this planet. I may have had to grow up, but dammit, I'm not going to be old. 

Losing My Religion

Fifteen years ago, I officially lost the religion that solely defined me for the first twenty-two years of my life. I have to admit it's a topic of conversation I avoid because of the feelings it evokes. For years, when friends would talk about their religion and their religious experiences growing up, my heart would stick in my throat, and I would repeat in my head, "Please don't ask, please don't ask." For years after losing my religion, I couldn't discuss these experiences without completely losing my composure. If I could clearly and definitively describe my experiences as bitter or painful, I think I would feel much more comfortable discussing them. But there were many parts of my religious experience I appreciated and enjoyed. I still at times yearn for the warm blanket of comfort I felt in my congregation; however, I know those feelings of nostalgia are tainted with fear and manipulation.  As a result, I feel a mixture of sadness, loss, gratitude and relief when I reflect on the faith that defined me as person for so long.

Shortly after my older brother was born, my mother was contacted by Jehovah's Witnesses who were preaching "door to door."  My mom invited the Witnesses to come back and after studying and learning about the faith, she felt moved to join the local Congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses.  By the time I was born, both of my parents were members of the local congregation and the organization at large. Throughout my childhood and teenage years being a Witness was the most important, defining part of my life. Every week, my family attended a two-hour meeting on Sunday mornings. On Monday or Tuesday evenings we participated in an hour long Bible Study, which for years was held at our home.  On Thursday nights, we attended another meeting that clocked in around an hour and half, and most Saturday mornings I spent preaching "door to door" for two to three hours while most kids my age were watching The Smurfs or The Snorks in their cozy living rooms.  Our weekly meetings super-ceded everything.  We only missed when we were ailing, and it wasn't uncommon for us to slog through all sorts of inclement weather on Saturday mornings to preach God's Word. I never went to a birthday party.  I never had a birthday party.  We didn't celebrate Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Easter, the Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, or Christmas.  I stood politely and silently as my classmates pledged the flag every morning at school. In high school, I wasn't allowed to play sports, go to dances, or take part in school activities. I wasn't allowed to date as a teenager and would only be allowed to date another Jehovah's Witness when I was ready to get married. My only sleepovers were at the home's of other Jehovah's Witnesses, and my only "true" friends were Witnesses.

Given the list of things I wasn't able to do, one might think I had an unhappy childhood, but in all honesty, I would describe my childhood as exceedingly happy.  I grew up in a tight-knit, loving family. Because our faith strongly discouraged us from associating with our extended family who were not Jehovah's Witnesses, and we didn't participate in events which typically bring families together, I think we clung to our small unit with all our might.  We ate dinner together nightly as a family, attended our weekly meetings together, and let our faith first and foremost guide our lives as a family unit.  We were a model family in our local congregation. Jehovah's Witnesses encourage their believers to only associate with members of their faith as a "safeguard."  Everyone outside the organization is viewed as "worldly" and all dealings with "worldly" individuals should be kind, courteous and most importantly distant. With the exception of my grandparents, I considered my congregation to be more of my family than my own "blood" relatives and treated them accordingly.  My best friend growing up was a member of my congregation, and her parents were like my second parents and vice versa.  We slept over each other's houses, vacationed together, and in the summer on the days my mother worked, I would often spend the day with her and her mom.  Our lives were intertwined to the point that we were more like sisters than friends.  I also was fortunate to have a fair number of kids my age in our congregation which was comprised of nearly a hundred members. The larger organization of Jehovah's Witnesses dictated the congregation one attended geographically, and other kids weren't so lucky in other congregations to have so many young people. I felt loved, accepted and secure in this community and still fondly remember many wonderful experiences with the members of the congregation.

As a teenager, I decided to officially dedicate my life to God and be baptized.  This was a serious step and a rite of passage in my faith.  Baptisms took place at events called assemblies or conventions which occurred three times a year.  Our assemblies were held at a facility outside of Harrisburg where a group of eight to ten congregations would convene to participate in two day gatherings for upwards of eight hours each day.  Conventions were held in even larger venues and comprised of congregations from around the state and lasted three to four days. Our yearly summer convention was typically held in Veteran's Stadium in Philadelphia where we often sweltered in the sun while the Phillies were on the road.  I looked forward to these assemblies and conventions because it meant I would meet new Witnesses who were my age and stay overnight in hotels for a mini-vacation.  I can still remember the excitement and pride I felt about my baptism at the age of fifteen.  The weeks leading up to my baptism, I met with different elders in my congregation to discuss why I wanted to be baptized and the great obligations that came with being a baptized member of the congregation.  I was also questioned regarding the basic tenets of our faith and my overall knowledge of the Bible.

After my baptism, I worked to be a sterling role model in my local congregation.  I faithfully attended meetings, prayed several times during the day, spent hours studying the Bible and the publications distributed by the organization, and frequently dedicated sixty hours a month in the summer preaching from "door to door."  I knew my goals for the future.  I would hopefully be married by the age of twenty or twenty-one to a Jehovah's Witness, preach from "house to house" like Jesus Christ, and wait patiently for Armageddon and my salvation from this evil world.  I thought I had everything figured out and knew what God had in store for me.

In the late Fall of my senior year of high school, my Grammy, who was my greatest life champion, asked me if I wanted to go to college.  My response was an immediate and definitive N-O.  Jehovah's Witnesses did not go to college.  Since the end of the world was around the corner, there was really no need to worry about my job security or financial future after all.  Sure, I was smart and academics came easily, but college?  After my Grammy planted the seed though, the idea took root. I loved going to school.  I loved reading and learning. But, of course, my first love and priority would always be my religion. My Grammy was persistent and frequently told my father "what a waste it would be not to send Jennifer to college."  While my Grammy had quietly accepted we didn't come over for Christmas dinner and settled for buying me a Savings Bond around my birthday, she was insistent I be given the opportunity to go to college, an opportunity she had been denied by her own parents. My father relented and said he would support my decision. If I wanted to go to college, he would allow it. Of course, there would be no dorming, but I could select any college in the area and commute.

In the Fall of 1995, I headed off to a small, local college.  I noted my path had changed slightly, but my ultimate goals remained the same.  I would still marry a Jehovah's Witness, get a better job after college that would allow me to preach from "house to house" like Jesus Christ, and wait patiently for Armageddon and my salvation from this evil world.  Over the next four years though my perspective on the world changed dramatically. There wasn't just one single moment that triggered my disillusionment with my religion; rather, it was a collection of events which opened my eyes to the faults in my faith.  As an English major, I learned how to interpret literature from many different perspectives and could support these interpretations with the text. I began to consider this idea in relation to the Bible. While the people who wrote the magazines and publications for Jehovah's Witnesses claimed to be inspired by God's Holy Spirit, I began to question their inspiration. I started to question the "wickedness" of "worldly" people. A lot of "worldly" people were kind, lived good lives and looked out for others. I noted some members of my own faith followed the principle of "do as I say, not as I do" and were far from kind. I noted the inconsistencies in the message of love and tolerance I preached with the actual realities of my religion that at times espoused intolerance and judgment. I looked at some of the senior members of the congregation who had put off having children and living life in some respects because Armageddon was around the corner. They tried to conceal their sadness and regrets with smiles, but I could see in their eyes how they looked at our family and other families and longed for the one they had forgone too many years ago so they could better serve God. Finally, I struggled to reconcile how my all powerful God of love could allow cancer to wither my Grammy's body and what I thought was an indomitable spirit to nothing in a matter of months; an injustice that years later can still suck the air from my lungs.

I graduated college and debated my future.  I knew I no longer believed in my religion, but I was terrified of what I would be without it.  All of my friends, "my family" were Jehovah's Witnesses. The moment I chose to leave, they would no longer be allowed to associate with me or speak to me. I also thought of all the examples of members who left the "flock" of the organization who led lives of sin. There was always a veritable parade of former Witnesses who were now drug addicts, thieves, alcoholics, or single mothers left jilted because of their promiscuous behavior. No one who ever stopped being a Jehovah's Witness ever ended up with a better life, or at least that's what I was told on an all too regular basis.  As I struggled with this dilemma and considered my future, I knew I couldn't pretend to be a part of a religion I no longer believed in and began to recognize how I had been in many ways duped, manipulated and coerced into subjection by fear. Fear of losing my family. Fear of losing out on my divine reward. 

After graduating college, I decided to take a job two hours away from the place I called home which inevitably enabled me to cleanly sever ties with my religion. When I first moved to the Philadelphia area, I did go to a few meetings at the local Congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses but quickly realized it wasn't what I wanted nor did I need it. I decided to "disassociate" myself from the organization stating I no longer wanted to be a member and to remove my name from their rolls.  With that decision, I lost a lot--my childhood best friends, a congregation of individuals who had been my family since I was born, and the one thing that had defined me and my purpose in life for so long. The loneliness and fear I felt was further compounded as my parent's thirty year marriage disintegrated. The feeling of being alone was at first crushing and terrifying. I must admit at times I doubted my decision. Had I made a foolish mistake? Maybe I should return, tail between my legs, and repent? But those feelings and doubts dissipated with the passage of time and were replaced by relief and a sense of freedom I had never felt before. The mental clarity was intoxicating.

Losing my religion is by the far the hardest decision I have ever made and also by far the best decision I ever made. In all reality, I don't have any regrets or lingering animosities about being raised as a Jehovah's Witness. Sure, more than a decade later, I would be lying if I were to say I didn't terribly miss my childhood best friend. When my Dad tells me he saw a member of the congregation at the grocery store who we knew for over twenty years, and this person avoids even making eye contact with my Dad, my heart hurts. But I guess this is how we have to pay for our sins--I had done the same to other people who decided to leave or were forced to leave the congregation. When my Dad came to visit us this past Christmas, a holiday I now relish spending with my family, he asked if I ever felt deprived during my childhood because of how I was raised.  I immediately responded no. My parents did a wonderful job of making me feel loved. I don't question their motivation or intentions for a second. They were just doing what they thought was best for their family. I also reassured my Dad because of my religious experiences and in spite of those religious experiences, I have become a strong, independent, tolerant, kind and loving individual who sees the best in this life. While I may not lead the life I was indoctrinated to follow during my formative years, I have no qualms or reservations about the path I picked. I am far from perfect. I am human and full of flaws like everyone else on this planet.  I also remind myself, I have little time for regretting the past.  I spent far too many years waiting on a future that wasn't to be and want to spend my energies and time enjoying the present.



  

“There are no bad pictures; that's just how your face looks sometimes.”

I have decided the time has come for me to select a picture for my blog.  Let me start by saying I HATE having my picture taken and in general do my best to always avoid being the subject of any photos.  It's ironic given how much I love pictures and that I have been scrapbooking for close to fifteen years. I love pictures and the memories they evoke but would rather focus on the places I've been and the people I love than be the subject.

There are two main reasons why I hate having my photo taken.  The first being what I have termed my "Sloth Eye."  As a teenager, my three best girlfriends and I loved to take pictures.  Before the days of digital photography, we would buy actual film or disposable cameras, snap ridiculous photos, drop the film off at CVS, and wait impatiently for them to be developed.  We would excitedly pick them up from the store and rip open the envelope to laugh at our awesome candids of one another, our goofy friends, and crushes. Repeatedly, I would look at the photos and groan at my awful droopy, squinty right eye.  What the heck? In my adorably cute pictures from my very early childhood, I never had this problem.  I don't have a lazy eye, but for whatever reason, I had developed what we coined my "Sloth Eye." The official term "Sloth Eye" is an allusion to Sloth from the classic film The Goonies. "Baby Ruth!"  Thankfully with the advent of digital photography, the incident rate of "Sloth Eye" has diminished significantly.  But I do feel the need to mention my dear friend Laura who knows about my "Sloth Eye" and during the whole process of my getting married--two bridal showers, a Bachelorette Party, Rehearsal Dinner, and actual Wedding Day, she was the best bridesmaid a girl could ask for since she would be on the lookout for my "Sloth Eye" and would immediately insist on a picture re-take.  She even warned my wedding photographer. In turn, I repaid the favor by informing Laura whenever she had some crumbs or weird stains on the shirt covering her then pregnant belly. Every girl needs a girlfriend who will look for spinach in your teeth or toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe, and at first may laugh at you, but won't allow you to look ridiculous in front of others. 

My second reason for hating having my picture taken has to do with my own personal insecurities that stem from my tween and teen years.  You know how they say the camera adds ten pounds?  Well, when you factor in that I ALWAYS believe I can stand to lose a good five to ten pounds, according to my math, that puts me at a solid fifteen to twenty pounds heavier than I want to be in every single picture.  I do not feel that I am alone in this belief.  At least that's what I tell myself.  I think a lot of other women share the same insecurities about their bodies, or at least that's what I learned from watching the Today Show.  From fourth grade through twelfth grade, I vacillated through varying degrees of chubbiness.  Before entering a growth spurt, I would pack on the pounds and then grow an inch.  I never grew enough vertically though to ever really lose my chubbiness.  My insecurities were further compounded by having a "skinny attractive mom.  "That's your mom?" boys would question in disbelief.  I obviously didn't inherit her slim genes.  Even during pregnancy, my mom never endured the moment of when the nurse slides the big weight over. My senior year of high school, I went on the best diet ever--mono-- and dropped ten pounds.  During my freshmen year of college as a commuter I managed to drop the "freshmen fifteen." In college, I finally made some peace with my insecurities about my weight; although, I wouldn't have minded losing another five pounds.

During pregnancy, I did my best to feel carefree about gaining weight.  After all, I was growing a human being for goodness sake.  However, when you are pregnant, people you know and absolute strangers feel the need to constantly comment on your physical appearance.  Granted, people often say kind things like "Oh, you're carrying well" or "Wow, you're all belly."  But there are also a lot of people who give you backhanded compliments or are cluelessly just straight-up rude.  I remember when I was pregnant with my second son, one of my student's parents asked me if I was having a girl this time.  When I responded, "No, I'm having another boy."  She looked at me quizzically and noted how differently I was carrying this baby.  I took this to mean I looked like crap.  A few weeks later, I went out to celebrate my sister-in-law's 30th birthday.  I really didn't want to go because I was tired and pregnant, but my husband reminded me that with baby #2 due soon, I should get out while the getting was good.  I did my best to pull myself together and wore cute shoes in hopes they would distract from my burgeoning belly.  Forgetting that my sister-in-law and brother-in-law are usually late, I was the first one to arrive at the small restaurant.  I stood by the hostess stand since "bellying up" to the crowded bar seemed inappropriate.  A couple stood next to me, and the husband gave me a leering smile, "You got twins in there?"

I smiled back placidly, "No."  

He chortled, "Triplets, maybe?"

"No, thanks though," I replied sarcastically.

Two weeks later at a friend's wedding I had two other different individuals ask me if I was having twins.  Needless to say, I can probably count on one hand the number of photos there are of me during both of my pregnancies. 

As a mom, I now have the two best subjects for photos who have no inhibitions about having their photo taken.  Why would they? They are adorable.  I think most moms would agree that they spend most of their time behind the camera because often there's no one else around to take the picture. Fine by me.  However, as I began to look at the collection of photos of my boys, I began to rethink my self-imposed anonymity in these photos.  While I doubt my abilities as a mom on probably a daily basis, I do adore being with my boys and feel I am present, at least most of the time.  I love taking them to new places, jumping on a trampoline while they squeal with delight, or running around our house dancing as I play Martha Quinn with the On Demand Music Channel.  I know with the passage of time, my boys will forget these specific moments, but I hope they hold on to how they feel in those moments--happy, joyous and adored.  

I also reminded myself that I need to stop hiding behind the camera, so they can one day not just remember but see that Mom wasn't just there to take the picture, she was there to experience and enjoy the moment with them. That those photos with mom will evoke those memories and feelings.  Sure, I may have a "Sloth Eye" here or there, and from my perspective, I may look like I can stand to lose a few pounds, but when capturing those memories, "there are no bad pictures; that's just how [my] face looks sometimes" and that's okay.  

This photo was from Nate's first day of kindergarten as we waited for the school bus to pick him up; a milestone day I will never forget.  I still remember getting off the bus after my first day of kindergarten and running into my mom's arms. 

Spoiler Alert: "There Will Come a Time When All of Us are Dead"

At the SAG Awards two weeks ago, the adorable Jennifer Lawrence had a fan meltdown when she met Damian Lewis from Homeland on the red carpet.  The two shared a moment followed by Access Hollywood's Shaun Robinson "spoiling" the third season of Homeland by revealing the fate of Lewis' character.  Lawrence was appalled and horrified by the revelation since she hadn't yet watched the third season.  I, too, have not yet watched the third season of Homeland and inadvertently saw Brody's fate in Entertainment Weekly's "Year in Review Issue" a few weeks ago.  I'm a bit behind in my TV viewing, and like some people, have recently become addicted to Breaking Bad after hearing other people rave about the show. In the process of learning Brody's fate in EW, I also inadvertently learned the fate of Walter White after only having watched the first season of the show.  My initial response was to throw my hands and my magazine up in the air in annoyance.  Way to go and ruin the show! I had been taking careful measures while reading EW and conversing with people who watch the show to avoid this exact situation.  But then I took a moment to reflect. Am I really surprised to learn the fate of Walter White?  Nope. And more importantly does knowing the fate of Walter White really impact how I consume his journey into the dark side of humanity? Nope. I may know the ending, but I am confident I will continue to be astounded by the insanity and absurdity of Walter's dissent into oblivion like so many tragic figures before him.

In high school, I remember reading Romeo and Juliet in my Freshmen English class knowing full well the outcome of the tragedy; however, this knowledge in no way diminished my experience.  In fact, it may have heightened my experience.  Instead of worrying about what may come of poor Romeo and the lovely Juliet, I was able to focus on the beauty of their experience. After reading Shakespeare's Julius Caesar in tenth grade and knowing the fate of Caesar, I smiled at my twelfth grade English teacher as she passed out Hamlet and thought wryly, bet things don't go so well for this guy.  Shakespeare is considered one of the greatest playwrights to ever live, and he "spoiled" every single tragedy he wrote by naming it after the character or characters he offed by the end of the play.     

Likewise, one of my current favorite TV shows How I Met Your Mother has made me fully aware of the main character's romantic fate.  In the fall, I felt so sad knowing this would be the last season for a show that so consistently makes me laugh and ugly cry-- sometimes in the same episode.   I remember gasping for breath from laughing so hard during "Bad News" and still fill up with tears thinking about the last twenty seconds of that particular episode. But I find myself disappointed with the final season of the show because the writers have become so consumed with the ending that they have lost sight of what made the show so special and poignant.

Great TV, great movies, great works of literature aren't about the ending; they're about the journey.  I vividly remember the Saturday the UPS driver delivered the final book in the Harry Potter series.  I was so excited to ignore my son and get lost in the book.  But I paused after tearing open the package when I considered that this would be the end of my journey with Harry Potter.  Instead of devouring the book in one setting, which of course was my initial plan, I took my time and frequently reminded myself to savor this last segment of his  journey.  

Great TV, great movies, and great works of literature don't just entertain, they instruct; they make us think.  And the most important lesson I have learned from fine entertainment is the importance of enjoying the journey.  But, it's also a lesson that I sometimes forget in my daily life.   I'm a planner and sometimes spend too much time worrying, planning or daydreaming about the future.  I constantly have to remind myself the importance of living in the present and enjoying the moment. I feel I have become especially aware of this as I watch my boys grow-up before my eyes.  

As I watch my boys grow up, I am also well aware of how quickly time passes. Like everyone, I am aware of my own mortality; although, it's not a topic I like to dwell on for too long.  In John Green's novel, The Fault in Our Stars, Hazel, the main character quotes her favorite author, who notes, "There will come a time when all of us are dead."  Thankfully, I don't know when that will be the case for me.  If I had that knowledge I would probably be more paralyzed than poor Hamlet by the decision of what to do next?

In the novel The Fault in Our Stars, the main character is so worried about her ending and the repercussions of her life ending, that she has spent most of her sixteen years without even living.  Fortunately, she realizes a person should live and enjoy the journey without worrying about "what a slut time is [since] she screws everybody." She reflects at the end of the novel that it's possible to enjoy "a forever within the numbered days."  What a beautiful notion--"a forever within the numbered days." Like everyone else on this planet, I know there will come a time when I cease to exist. But I also know I'm going to strive to enjoy the "forever within my numbered days" instead of worrying about the inevitable ending.

My Name is Earl

Shortly before Winter Break, I had my students read Sandra Cisneros' vignette "My Name" from The House on Mango Street and asked them to write about their name.  I encouraged them to either ask their parents how they had decided upon their name, look up the meaning of their name, or consider how their name has shaped them.  To help them better understand the assignment, I told them the story of my name.  For over twenty-seven years of my life, my name was Earl.  My parents originally planned to name me Nicole, but my mother worried Nicole Earl would leave me a little tongue-tied.  So my parents opted for Jennifer.  Now in case you didn't know, from 1970 through 1984, Jennifer was the number one most popular name in the United States for girls.  I live next door to a Jennifer. The neighbor who we shared a backyard with for five years--Jennifer.  In my English Department at my former school which was comprised of twelve total teachers, there were two other Jennifers.  

I attended a cozy elementary school with one other Jennifer in my grade.  She didn't mind being called Jenny, and I was Jen. Yet I always felt my last name was connected with my first name in elementary school.  I ended up with the awful nickname of "Earl the Squirrel" aka "Squirrely Early" in elementary school partially due to my crooked front teeth and a not so nice boy.  When I entered middle school, and the four elementary schools in my district merged, there were an abundance of Jennifers.  It was not uncommon for there to be two to three other Jennifer's in my classes, and so I became Jen Earl. When I finally entered high school, I somehow lost my Jen and was just simply Earl.  At first I was bothered by this. There is no chance that any boy is ever going to like you romantically when your name is Earl, and every one in your high school calls you Earl.  I have yet to meet a pretty Earl. I felt myself clearly marginalized into the friend zone, and the only question any boy was asking me, "Earl, would you let me borrow your homework?" Most of my high school teachers even called me Earl. My high school French teacher, Monsieur Yarnell, absolutely loved bellowing my last name at the top of his lungs or would burst into a stirring rendition of "Duke of Earl" before calling on me in class for two years in a row. He was also the first person but certainly not the last to call me the "Jeneral" and salute me. During my four years of high school, I slowly became inured to my last name being my first name.  Just like eating asparagus, I eventually grew a taste for it.  When I left high school, I accepted being Earl, and even came to like it.  It was unique.  There were lots of Jennifers in my graduating class but only one Earl.

In college, I met a whole new group of Jennifers.  After introducing myself as Jen, I explained to my peers that after being called Earl for years, I didn't really respond to Jen.  My new friends quickly learned after shouting "Jen" repeatedly across campus without my acknowledgement that "Earl" garnered an immediate response.  When I started teaching my first year out of college, my students, of course, called me Miss Earl, and the three male teachers who treated me like their sister immediately took to calling me Earl.  My one co-worker and friend loved the irony of calling a 5'4" female English teacher what he considered the rightful name of a big, burly truck driver.  My students called me Earl, Earl Dawg, the Jeneral, Earl the Pearl, and I was fine with all these monikers.  

In 2004, when I married my husband, I was at first surprised by how emotional I felt about giving up my last name--Earl.  Even before meeting my husband, I always had every intention of taking my future husband's last name. I also knew I didn't want to hyphenate my name.  In retrospect, my difficulty in giving up my last name had more to do with identifying myself as Earl.  It had been my name for twenty-seven years, and I wasn't ready to leave it behind.  I made the decision to change my last name but also decided Earl would become my middle name. When I returned to school in the Fall of 2004, the district had hired a new big, burly, jovial African American Athletic Director whose name was, you guessed it, Jennifer. Just kidding, his name was Earl. My colleagues felt it was too confusing to continue to call me Earl, so they ordained me JR.

I love my current last name.  It's the name I share with my husband and my children.  Some might even say it's presidential. But I also must admit I still love when someone calls me Earl.  It doesn't happen too frequently, but it always makes me smile.

Last summer, we were driving home from our friends' house after having dinner with them, and my husband rolled through a stop sign.  Soon red and blue flashing lights illuminated the darkness, and we pulled over to the side of the road. At first I was annoyed by the thought of us having to pay a "stupid ticket for rolling though a pointless stop sign," but then felt the happy relief of not being the one driving.  The officer asked for my husband's license and our registration, which I retrieved from the glove compartment. As the officer walked back to his cruiser, we explained to our boys, the importance of following the rules.  A few minutes later, the police officer returned to our van.  He handed my husband his license, the registration, and a ticket and reminded him to make a complete stop in the future. He then leaned forward through the driver's side window and asked incredulously, "Is your middle name really Earl?" 

I smiled and shrugged, "Yep, my name is Earl." 

 He shook his head and chuckled, "Have yourself a good evening folks!"  

As I placed the registration back in the glove compartment, I turned on the overhead light and noticed the ticket read "Written Warning " and thought, "It's good to be Earl."