The Summer of Me

I made the decision to retire from public education at the end of this school year (in 309 days, not that anyone’s counting). I am not leaving for the reasons you might think–you can read the last eleven years of this blog to get my take on the trials and tribulations of public education in the US. My reasons to hang it up don’t include the kids or families, not the IEPs or demands of AAC; it’s not my coworkers or being the most senior of 180 speech-language pathologists in our district, or even the Sunday Scaries. Maybe it is little bits of each of those, OK, but right now, it’s this: I’m tired.

In point of fact, I am NOT tired. I’ve slept like a teenager this summer, sound and solid and longer than ever, though not in the teenagers’ way of sleeping til mid-afternoon. I’ve woken up naturally almost every day at a respectable 7:00-7:30-ish. With a few exceptions, I’ve fallen and stayed asleep for the duration. I legit feel smarter and less volatile, less anxious.

After nearly 23 years as a mom and seven years of post-accident caregiving, it was time to look in the mirror. My sons are pretty independent–the older not even living at home, the younger on his way out soon, and my husband’s recovery is at maximum compensatory gains. They don’t need me like they used to, but you know who does need me? Me.

My summer break began with the second of my Shingles vaccines. As forecast, the vaccine kicked my butt for a couple days, but hey–the likelihood of this “I got the chickenpox twice” gal getting Shingles is waaaaaay down compared to the unvaccinated in my age cohort. I spent the first couple days sans 5:15 AM alarm clock experiencing zero guilt about laying around feeling fussy all day.

I saw my GP for a thorough once-over, kicking the tires and such. Got my sertraline refilled and he ran a bunch of bloodwork from which he made recommendations for a healthier diet and supplements for what my diet is unlikely to contain enough naturally. I’ve been consistent with my vitamins since that appointment even though the horse-sized pills make me pukey. Look at me, all acting like a big girl and stuff.

My shoulder was cooperating briefly and I enjoyed yoga two-three days a week. I’ve complained loudly about my city, but their public recreation division offers a wide range of classes at a ridiculously low cost, including two free sunrise yoga classes at the lakefront. My on again-off again shoulder leaves me lagging behind where I once was on my yoga journey, but I was able to hit the mat and it felt so good to feel strong again. Then I slept on my side Saturday night after too little sleep last weekend, waking up to an unwelcome hitch in my rotator cuff. My shoulder’s back to being a dick.

I’ll spare you the details, but after several years of delay and rescheduled procedures, I finally got my baseline colonoscopy. Friends, do it. I swear that the very worst thing isn’t what you think it would be–it’s drinking the prep liquid. Just typing it out here got me dry heaving and gave me the full body shivers. SO. GROSS. For a not-whiny person, I whined a real lot, even barking that “I’d just take the cancer,” except that is not funny at all and no joking matter. The night before is no carnival, but if you follow a light diet for a few days before, it’s no thing, I promise. In all my days and months hospital bedside, I’ve only ever been the patient twice, when my boys were born. It was lovely to be taken care of, to have warm blankets laid upon me and propofol coursing through my veins. It’s also not cool to joke about IV drugs, I admit, but the speed at which I fell unconscious and the blissful black hole in my memory? I did not mind the propofol. AND I’m healthy, thank stars.

I saw my gynecologist for an overdue exam. I thought I only had to go once every five years, but it’s just this one test I need every five years. Given my medical history, I’m supposed to be screened annually. I’m pleased to report that I’m good. Gotta increase my calcium, he urged, so I’m doing that too.

Self-care for me isn’t manicures and spa days. It’s taking care of my physical health so I can do or continue doing things I love once I retire. I see many people who, through disease, disability, or disuse, no longer enjoy the mobility and health they once did. I’m going to rewrite the mantra I developed for my son when he was first diagnosed with MD for myself as I age: I want to do as much as I can, as hard as I can, for as long as I can.

Self-care also includes mental health and I cannot recommend this self-care regimen highly enough: Pick up two friends from the airport. Enjoy a meal and drinks at a beautiful lakeside beer garden, road trip to meet up with two additional friends for a Barenaked Ladies concert on Friday. Repeat concert experience Saturday night. If you really want to up your self-care game, buy the VIP tickets and witness a soundcheck–the tech stuff is super cool and you might even not-quietly suggest they play their newest song. Five star self-care, y’all.

Please take care of yourselves, everyone. Take care of yourself not only after everyone else’s care has been managed before your own. Be smarter than me and please prioritize yourself. NOW. Right now. And not exclusively because you’re staring down the barrel of the end days of your first career. Buy the concert tickets, hang with your friends, hike the mountains, go to the doctor, eat the extra frosting. These things are strangely interrelated, aren’t they?

No Apologies, OK, Well, a Few

I once met a guy who claimed he never took photographs. His stance was that whatever he’d seen or experienced lived larger in his memory than could possibly be captured via print media. I don’t subscribe to this theory, but I do understand the point, especially in today’s social media/influencer era. People are so busy documenting well, everything, that I believe it’s easy to miss the joy found in the moment. In fact, they unapologetically seem not to care about the moment because it’s about clicks, views, shares, etc. My niece and I had a brief text exchange about this upon her return from an Alaskan cruise. Of course her pictures were adorable and majestic, depending on whether the picture was of Denali, a glacier, or her cute self and fiance. I was heartened to hear her say that she snapped pictures for scale and then made sure to take it all in.

Just before their departure to the 49th state, we were on our trip to the 50th. At long last, my husband got the beach vacation he’d been chasing for many years. Our family of four spent a week and a half in Hawaii, on Maui, bookended by a few nights in Seattle to break up the flights and also to explore a new-to-me city. I’m not a bucket list gal and Hawaii was never my “dream destination,” but this time away together was a dream.

One of my brothers-in-law’s family owns a condo in Maui, and their generous family discount made it financially possible for us to enjoy the paradise that is Maui. I work a school calendar, so in mid-June often get asked, “Do you have any fun getaways planned for summer?” I found myself shy and sheepish admitting to vacationing in Hawaii. To me it felt so exotic, so out of character, so expensive! After having done little in recent years but rail against our diminished finances pushed by my husband’s forced retirement/my career as a public educator, I felt undeserving of a trip so grand, like Hawaii is too good for the likes of me.

Each time I’d talked about our trip, I prefaced it with the family discount and how we’d never have been able to go without it. I had to explain why I, who has complained about our finances for lo these seven years, could do something so irresponsible, so beyond our grasp, so expensive! I made sure to mention how we’d broken the trip into chunks. We paid for the condo last December, purchased airfare and rented the car in March, and were able to score steeply discounted hotels in Seattle after the FIFA World Cup sold less well than anticipated. All of this made a dent in the sticker shock, sure, and go, me for saving a couple bucks! But why did I feel apologetic, backpedaling on how great this trip could really be? I was, what? Unworthy?

That stops here. Feeling unworthy is unproductive and untrue. We all deserve nice things! My husband has wanted a beach vacation for years. Things haven’t been easy here these last seven years, and if anyone has earned paradise, it’s him. I’ve been put off the idea of traveling internationally the last few years and probably won’t feel entirely comfortable leaving my home country until 2029. Maui provided the beach getaway he wanted and deserved with the comfort I sought. I found myself thinking and saying that this might be our final foursome of forced family fun. Our children don’t want for anything, but their lives are not unaffected by our predicament. And then there’s me. . .

I work hard. I engage in a challenging profession in a system and historical period fraught with inequity. I’m not positioning myself as a martyr here; I haven’t worked thirty-five years posturing with a savior complex. I truly enjoy my work and the kids and families I serve. I can now confidently assert that it’s hard work. And I fully recognize my privilege as an educated woman earning more than minimum wage. But I hustle too. I have two side jobs because being an educator pays less than my advanced degree might lead one to believe, my husband’s income and future earnings trajectory was slashed, and we have two kids in college. But none of this means we have not earned the right to enjoy nice things. Why have I felt this way since the accident?

So I’m not apologizing for hiking on Mount Rainier or feasting my eyes on the floral shops in Seattle’s Pike Place Market. I will be modest about snorkeling in Molokini Crater and hiking above the clouds in a volcanic crater at Haleakala National Park, but I so loved the experiences. I’ll be mostly not sorry for swimming on a black sand beach and eating the most delicious cinnamon rolls and banana bread. Y’all, I did NOTHING for like 3 of 10 days, and I do mean nothing. Well, I did go to the beach and walk/hike in Kihei and Lahaina whenever and for however long I felt like it. I took few pictures. Mostly I took it in.

While I’m at it, I’m not going to be too timid about spending three action-packed days with my college friends in Minneapolis. BS Travel never lets us down and Beth and Sue outdid themselves! I WILL acknowledge and apologize for being the weakest link when it comes to Girls Trip planning. You just can’t imagine the time and energy these two spend to lay out the red carpet for Bridget, Julie, and me.

Paisley Park evoked terrific memories and later we shopped at the Electric Fetus, the super cool record store at which Prince shopped and was left alone. With no help from me (I do apologize), we escaped our annual escape room adventure moving our record back up to .500! Noel Coward’s play Separate Lives stood the test of a century’s time and still entertained at Minneapolis’ marvelous Guthrie Theater. Trivia games were played (and tiaras were retained) and we laughed, talked, made crafts, wore muumuus, and enjoyed being together. Thanks to Google Maps being a bit topsy-turvy, we found ourselves at Renee Good’s memorial on Portland Avenue in Minneapolis. *heavy sigh* It was a sobering moment–she was killed right there, in the street where my car was idling as I waited for the light to turn green. It felt right to have landed there and to acknowledge her. And even though I had just spent ten days with him, I got to spend another blip of time with my big kid in his adopted hometown.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank my friends and family for having spent time with me these last few weeks. Your time and attention are gifts for which I’m ever-grateful. And I DO apologize to (and also thank) everyone who’s stood by me through my endless lamenting over the losses. I will do my best to refocus. I will continue to apologize for wrongs I commit, but not for giving myself permission to enjoy something for which I’ve put in the work. I’m going to try anyway.

Please be stronger and wiser than me. If your head and heart allow, spend less time focused on what has been lost and worrying about what you cannot have or do. Do what you can while you’re able. I’m walking/hiking and practicing yoga a few times a week to ensure I stay strong and “able” as long as these old bones will allow. Never in my life have I been able to travel outside of school breaks and for the first time in ever, I’m planning ahead to an October, 2027 flight west to knock out a few more hikes in a handful of our National Parks.

Travel in October?? I must be dreaming.

Spoke Too Soon

My sons and husband returned home from four warm days in sunnier climes Thursday evening, one winging back to his home in Minneapolis and the others right back here to the 414. At breakfast Friday, my husband says to me that he’d not attended to the news at all during their getaway so was wondering if I could provide a quick update on the situation in Venezuela. Oh honey, that was so four days ago! This morning’s newsfeed, top to bottom, featured the dreadful news that an Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent shot a woman named Renee Good in the head, multiple times, essentially at point blank. I tried to recap the little I knew at that time in the very little time I had to scarf down breakfast and get out the door for work, but paused.

He knew that I was preparing for a presentation to the department that morning, and I wanted to feel positive and relatively focused (focused for me, that is). Knowing that speaking about the unspeakable would derail me, I told him that I didn’t want to talk about it at that moment. How lucky am I, to choose not to have to talk about it?

Do you ever do any public speaking? There are audience members you seek with a mic in hand–you look for those nodding along with you, steady in their eye contact, laughing where they’re supposed to; they provide necessary feedback that your material is hitting and they’re not bored out of their minds. I’m still feeling poorly with this stupid cold I just cannot seem to shake, so continuing my remarkable streak of faking it til I make it, I mostly didn’t cough through the entire presentation and, based on my SLP audience barometers, I felt as though the material was well-received.

My point in telling you about my presentation isn’t to boast about the presentation itself (though I am consumed by the opportunity cost of screen time on early brain and language development). The monthly meeting was such a normal thing, a completely ordinary event. When our SLPs were filing in to the auditorium, I greeted my colleagues, we exchanged wishes of “happy new year” and inquired about the others’ kids, how was your winter break?, that kind of chat. It was lovely. Friday morning was business as usual but it didn’t feel normal to feel normal. That’s my point.

That’s how it starts though, right? Events like what happened in Minneapolis don’t affect YOU directly so can be ignored, it’s someone else’s problem, you can’t let it affect YOUR life. People die from gunshot wounds every day; people are debased and other-ed every day. Why would you be upset by <insert atrocity du jour here>? YOU’RE not the right type/wrong type ICE is trolling, so why should it matter? You go to work, you lock out all the terrible things people do to each other, and you present. You include your smarty-pants comments and insert “tone” when it fits because you know they work. You smile and say “thank you” when people applaud and say you’ve done well.

In my previous post, I told you I was good. It’s possible I’ve spoken too soon. Since I began taking this antidepressant, when bad things have happened to me personally and in this world we share during the insanity of 2025, I’ve said (not quietly and repeatedly) that I’m really glad I have these meds. I wonder but don’t really want to know how I would be feeling if I didn’t.

Decent people eagerly await the straw that will finally break this administration’s back. Every day I hope that <insert atrocity du jour here> will be what it takes for people to acknowledge the kakistocracy. Though I can’t imagine what, every day I know something worse will happen. And every day I more clearly understand that when an individual’s entire core self has become the bigotry and lies they believe, that person is no longer able to separate their very being from the narrative they’ve swallowed whole. They ARE their rage. We will be continue to be fed lie upon lie, demanding that we ignore what we’ve seen with our own eyes until tomorrow, when the next terrible deed is committed. Those conditioned to believe what they’re spoon-fed will believe and so it goes, over and over and over.

This can’t be our new normal. “Normal” is going to work, reading one of the books your best friend bought your for Christmas. Normal is doing your presentation on Friday morning, watching your team collapse in the second half Saturday, having homemade waffles for breakfast Sunday.

There’s a better than even-odds chance Minneapolis will become our home in the not terribly distant future. Part of my heart already lives there and the whole of it is with the community aching with loss and fear right now.

Minnesota/Wisconsin art credit to H. Wayne

Two Sides of the Same Coin

I checked in with my parents yesterday. We are not the kind of family, or maybe I should say that I am not the kind of daughter who speaks with her parents daily or even weekly. Many friends of mine speak with their parents and/or siblings daily so whenever my infrequency comes up in conversation with others, I recognize a look in their eyes. My news registers as an expression not of shock, but definitely surprise and maybe curiosity. We aren’t estranged or anything, just not close in the way some people define “close.”

My mom asked after my husband and each of my sons and then asked me, “how are you?” Ooooh, trick question! After my husband’s devastating accident and aftermath, I never answered the question. Like ever. I deflected the question back to whomever with I was speaking or talked about the kids, the weather, the Brewers, school, anything to avoid a direct response. I hadn’t thought about this question in a good while, how am I?, and it got to me to thinking about my sincere feelings on the matter.

On one face of the coin, I am good. G-O-O-D, good! I’m a proud member of Team Sertraline. I’ve been taking a low dose of the antidepressant for a year now and the way it completes the short circuits and fills the holes in my brain has felt like an awakening. I’d gotten to a point that anger and anxiety were my two constant, most reliable companions. I could not imagine not spending my time in the company of my two unhealthy besties exclusively and for too long frankly, I didn’t want to. Anger and anxiety weren’t just feelings I experienced, they came to define who I was. Don’t be too surprised if you didn’t know that about me–I put on one hell of a performance as a well-adjusted, functional adult. I’m an exceptional “fake it til you make it” role model.

When I hit my medication’s titration, I didn’t feel like a different person, but I did notice an after-the-fact effect, like instead of hitting zero-to-sixty in 1.7 seconds, maybe I hit only zero-to-30, a safe school-zone-driving speed. Instead of my brain preparing to rear back and holler immediately, I’d consciously pause to wait for others to react first (and they do, I just don’t always have to be the maddest first). Instead of being shocked at someone’s behavior, I sigh knowingly and wonder how I ever actually hoped/believed that person would do the thing they’d said they would.

So, Mom and everyone, I’m good. I am working in an elementary school with educators I admire, serving students who challenge me professionally and stick with me personally. It’s exhausting and I love it! A few weeks back I began research for a presentation I’m doing in January and after a few hours of scouring source material then drafting my outline, I was charged up by how much I enjoy doing it! I decided that, barring unforeseen circumstances, my last day as a speech-language pathologist is June 16, 2027. It’ll mean 36 years with the same employer and that reads like a pretty good number to me.

I got to do fun things with the best people in 2025. After my husband’s forced retirement and almost a year of being a one-income family, I allowed myself to drop a couple bucks on non-essentials (though, TBH, I continue to be mired in guilt when I spend money on myself). Financial stressors meant we missed traveling to my dear friend Sue’s daughter’s wedding in spring which still eats at me, but I did enjoy a road trip with my husband and older son in summer. We climbed a mountain. We. Climbed. A. Mountain! I loved my annual college girls’ weekend, even the forced crafting component, Beth. . . With my Barenaked Ladies girls, I got to see my favorite band twice (once from the front row and it was, as always, a dream). I flew to the Oregon coast to spend a few days with my best friend. Empty nesting isn’t destroying my brain or heart, which feels like a powerful win. Don’t get me wrong, I miss my sons but am anchored in my belief that they’re where they’re meant to be right now. Our family of four together saw Sir Paul McCartney in concert in Minneapolis, just down the street from my big kid’s college home. Our mortgage is nearly paid. I am in good health and believe the lies people tell me about not looking my age! You guys, I saw the Aurora Borealis!!

But. . .

Mom and everyone, I’m also not good at all. For the many undeniable highs 2025 has bestowed upon me, they occurred during an undeniably low year in the United States. Those of you who don’t “do politics” might want to stop reading here. I’ve long said that people can agree to disagree, but when your point of view demeans people and espouses ignorance, bigotry, and hate, we don’t merely disagree.

There’s a popular meme, an oldie now, that goes something like, “my desire to be informed lies at odds with my desire to be sane.” This one speaks to my very core. For all the holes Zoloft fills in my brain, I remain unable to detach from news about the conduct of the current presidential administration. I just can’t ignore it–and even knowing I’d be happier not knowing whatever terrible thing has occurred today, ignoring it would be passive acceptance. If you know me at all, it should go without saying that I stand for public education, special education, women’s rights, public health, disability rights, I mean! I’m a female special educator serving impoverished, underserved, and high support needs students with disabilities in the state’s most vulnerable neighborhoods. Most of the people I encounter in my work are good and decent, doing all they can for what they believe is best for their child.

There is no space in my brain where I’m good with the president’s incoherent rants built on lies and make-believe. His words and conduct are deplorable and worse, go unchecked (indeed by many, celebrated!) by his spineless sycophants and the media! Who among us was even surprised that the president talked about his wife’s panties recently? We don’t even bat an eyelash at the insanity anymore. If you’re not thoroughly repulsed by a US president telling a woman reporter to be “quiet, piggy,” then you’re good with it? I am not good with it. How could I be “good” when I and people I know and love are targets of the administration? How can people who know and claim to love me support candidates who dismantle public education, destroy women’s rights, and mock the disabled? And I beg and plead once again, can someone please help me understand the religious right? ‘Cause holy shit, to me that just seems like the most unlikely, no, impossible marriage of guiding moral principles.

So, no, I’m not good, not always. Two sides of the same coin.

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I leave with you my good wishes for a wonderfully Merry Christmas! I’m not religious whatsoever, but I’m a deeply committed Santa Claus/Christmas tree/deck the halls/Nutcracker/light all the lights/Christmas carols/agnostic kind of Christmas gal. I love having my children home for the holidays, finding just the right gift for the right person, and principles of goodwill and togetherness. The winter solstice was yesterday and I’m all for deep reflection this time of year and the hopeful promise increasing light brings. The Zoloft helps.

2025 MDA Muscle Walk

The proliferation of cruelty and the tide of hate-fueled and -filled media is too much for me right now. Individuals seated in our nation’s highest offices and those stationed at their network’s anchor desks or podcast bully pulpits incite violence: peacocks in full boast mode, feathers fanned out in a gross display of racism, ableism, and other-ism-ing. As the meme goes, it’s a tough time to be a empath.

Absent one shred of evidence, the “others” were loudly, widely, and categorically assigned blame for yet another horrific act of gun violence. Names of “others” are being taken and lists compiled as threats are leveled against educators, writers, influencers (god I hate that term), university professors, health care providers. . . You know, the ones who were once thought to be the helpers, the good guys.

Free speech for me but not for thee, seems to be this week’s rallying cry.

Others have and will write more eloquently about the collapse of human decency and the rise of identity politics. My heavy heart needs a media vacay. Writing tells me how I feel and I’m not here to present a dissertation—read the works of talented journalists and yes, “influencers” whose job is to be much better informed than I am. This post is merely a healthy diversion for me.

Big Kid called last week, sharing among other news items, that he would be volunteering at the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s Minneapolis area Muscle Walk. You may remember my fund-raising campaigns during the years between my son’s diagnosis and my husband’s accident. Together, we (YOU!) raised $10,000 toward research, care, durable medical equipment, and summer camp for kids living with neuromuscular disease.

My heart overflowed knowing my son, himself diagnosed with neuromuscular disease and a beneficiary of the MDA’s support, was volunteering for the Muscular Dystrophy Association Muscle Walk. I’m 99.7% sure his cousin pulled him in and got him to the event early Saturday morning. She is truly special, that girl, that woman now! She sent pictures and (you better sit down for this shocker)—I cried. Happy tears, this time.

I miss the version of me that raised awareness and funds to support my kid and the thousands like him. I felt so purposeful and a little less scared engaged in that endeavor. I still support the MDA and encourage you to do the same, but that season of my life has faded as my energy had to be redirected.

Fortunately, I had the opportunity to witness and do a little something good while I was at work today. As each Sunday almost always is, today was a great day to be at the ballpark!

Stationed a short ways down from my employer’s marketing footprint outside American Family Field stood a group of firefighters along with 8-10 young people holding boots and signs like the one above, soliciting donations for the MDA’s Fill the Boot campaign. As the pairs made their rounds around the stadium, I thanked them for what they were doing. I said that my son has MD and that I sincerely appreciated their efforts, that what they’re doing meant a lot to me, a mom whose life is directly impacted by this terrible disease. Even if they were only there to log volunteer hours, it mattered to me and I wanted them to know there is a real face behind their efforts.

I never have cash on me, but grabbed my purse to fish out the emergency fiver I keep with my work ID and filled the boot. OK, I didn’t fill jack squat with five bucks! I did what little I could with what I had available in that moment—admittedly it amounted to very little, but I felt a moment of content, grinned a tiny grin and breathed deeply. I felt like I wanted to write a little story about how even in these dark days, a couple firefighters and a bunch of kids still showed up to perform acts of kindness and decency. And here I am with that little story.

Maybe we could all do a little with the little we have—doesn’t that just sound crazy in this timeline though??

Tell Me Something Good

Until last summer, I didn’t know I had a bucket list. I’d asserted often enough that didn’t have a bucket list so I guess I believed myself. I love the great outdoors (but don’t love roughing it), but I’m a nervous traveler so unless someone else is doing the planning, I tend not to stray too far from home. While of course there are wide open spaces and the bright lights of big cities I’d like to visit, there’s not one singular spot on this earth I feel I MUST SEE before I die. But there is something in the sky that I MUST SEE: the Northern Lights.

There is a small chance the aurora will be visible where I live tonight. Will I stay up late enough to head out in search of relative darkness in my city, crazy with light pollution? A fool’s errand, perhaps. 8:00 PM Wendy is highly aspirational and planning to hop in the car after nightfall. Whether I can actually keep my ol’ peepers open until late-late tonight still remains to be seen. When the Northern Lights were last visible at my latitude, everyone I knew–everyone on Facebook anyway–shared their photos. That may have been my only experience of true FOMO, I can’t lie when I say how sincerely I felt I’d missed out on something important. I even took a self-imposed social media break for a couple days. How silly of me, really.

Tonight I will look to the heavens and cross my fingers and toes I get to see them dancing.

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The countdown to summer vacation sits at eleven days. Our district, in a wondrous display of calendar confusion, has staff returning for our last day of school on a MONDAY. For the first year in several, I am skipping joyfully out of the year rather than bolting at a flat-out sprint. I was assigned to an elementary school this year and met with a challenging caseload that was outrageously high to manage in the time allotment given. I worked my butt off the first semester as my caseload exploded (an impossible 29 students to see in two half-days). I couldn’t and didn’t do it in two half days, so other parts of my job fell to the wayside.

I wasn’t a great PST this year but once the imposter syndrome subsided, I was a great SLP. I worked hard to plan meaningful lessons, learned about nonspeaking autistic children, and more about augmentative/alternative communication. I saw progress in each and every one of my kids and suffered only one subtle black eye for my efforts. Let’s just say that one of my little friends did NOT want to be done with the dinosaurs that day and I was a beat too slow to catch his hands!  I complained to my PST friends a whole lot the first semester as my caseload grew hourly, and I appreciated their listening ears and generous hearts. I appreciated those open ears and kind heats equally when I was able to share my delight and successes with those very kids the second semester.

I recently got a phone call from a former student, a young man who graduated high school in 2023. He left me a voicemail saying he’d found some papers we’d worked on in speech-language therapy and wondered if maybe I could help him with something now. We connected a few days later via text and phone. Educators sometimes wonder if our kids hear us, if we do in fact make a difference to our students. When a student calls you two years post-graduation to say he remembers you as always trying to help him and always being really kind to him?? Tantamount to an Oscar or an Emmy. Maybe a Tony because speech-language therapy is a live performance! Yes, a Tony. That’s how his call left me feeling–and I told him so! I was able to connect him with the type of resources he sought and I can’t wait to hear what’s next for him.

Speaking of awards–Last Friday our department celebrated the end of the year by recognizing our newest SLPs’ completion of their Clinical Fellowship Years, sending off our honored retirees, and handing out our first-ever SLP Honors Trophies. I’m not much for creativity, but I do love a microphone in hand. Twice previous I’d been a game show host, but my collaborator (OK, not really my collaborator, she wrote the whole thing and let me be my idiot self up there as the emcee) was on leave this year. To close out this year, I created the SLP Honors, “awards” recognizing excellence and ridiculousness. Some categories were true and sincere, like “Always Got Your Back,” or “Most Likely to Earn 3 PhDs.” Some were silly, like “Weirdest Work Injury” and “Broom Closet Award/Least Instagrammable Speech Therapy Space.” Yes, the award winning SLP was given a storage room in which to see students. *sigh* for #SLPLife

It was great fun for me to read the nominations as they came in and more fun to hand out recycled trophies and new certificates at our luncheon meeting. I work with some incredible professionals.

Closer to home, or technically farther away from home: my big kid finished his third year of college with his best semester GPA so far. He can’t believe he’s a senior. HE can’t believe it?? Get behind me in the line of disbelief, kid!

He has two minors and a major he hopes will land him a job in the field he desires. My heart leapt to hear him say he now knows what he wants to do in this life. My little kid navigated a challenging first year of college, earning a spot on the dean’s list both semesters, playing intramural sports and having fun with them, and forging friendships. I’m proud of them both for their determination and hard work.

It feels out of character to write and reflect on the good news about which I’ve written here. Things have felt so hard for so long that I wondered if I’d ever feel up again. Positivity and optimism aren’t exactly my brand, ya know. At all. But with the help of therapy, physical activity, and a low dose of anti-depressants, along with my wonderful supporting cast of coworkers, friends, and family who love me and whom I love right back, I made it through this school year. Hate and cruelty, lies and stupidity are running amok and unchecked these days. Not too many months ago my fingers would have been bled dry then calloused over from my incessant doom scrolling. I don’t have a whole lot to say here on my little blog anymore. I can say with surety that it’s fucking fantastic to have had a little run of good news lately.

What’s good with you? Tell me something good.

The Finish Line

We live two blocks from the county park that served as the finish line for the Milwaukee Marathon. Saturday morning’s sky shone the perfect blue shade of spring and despite sleeping two hours later than usual, my husband and I were out the door for an earlier than usual walk.

We parked ourselves near the finish gate with about 3:30 time elapsed. That means that people crossing the line had been running for over three and a half hours! Running the whole time. Three. And a half hours. In a row!

I’d been to one marathon prior and the human drama is more than ephemeral–it carries weight, has mass. You see a spectrum of runners–bodies of all types, shapes, ages, and sizes. You see people cramping and limping across the finish; you see expressions of joy and disbelief as runners round that final corner; you see people holding hands across the finish line; you see arms raised in celebration; you even see runners sprinting that last tenth of a mile. Witnessing triumph in complete strangers brought tears to my eyes. I didn’t actually witness my niece Lauren crossing the line when she ran the Chicago Marathon in support of the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s Team Momentum, but I cried happy tears each time I saw her along the route.

You also see marathoners who’d never previously considered themselves runners, but somehow find themselves at the finish line of 26.2 miles. That was the case of the family I happened to meet by virtue of our observation spot. As Dave (so said the sign) was rounding the final corner, his cheering squad went into overdrive. Cowbells clanking, his family members held up their signs, jumping up and down as they cheered him along that last tenth of a mile. When he passed us just before finishing, three of his family members stepped back from the course–each openly crying. One of Dave’s faves said to the others, “I don’t know why I’m so emotional.” I did.

But also, I didn’t. By now the three family members were full-on sobbing, in search of a Kleenex tissue. One woman repeatedly wondered, “I’m so emotional, why am I so emotional?” Of course me being me, I’m crying right along with them, total strangers to me and I to them. I said, “I don’t know you all and I’m emotional right now!”

The group laughed at/with me and then shared their story: that Dave had not previously considered himself a runner, but trained and ran in honor of their cousin/uncle who had passed away four months ago. Dave assumed the entry bib of their now-departed family member and ran a marathon because his cousin couldn’t.

What an experience to start my Saturday–the peak of human decency and dignity wrapped up in the warmest of hugs. Our exchange lasted no longer than a minute, I’ll never know their names or see this family again, but Dave and his family will stick with me.

Gonna Jump in the Shower

Why do people say, “I’m going to jump in the shower?” I’ve never jumped in–that is a recipe for certain disaster! Does anyone actually jump in? Not one to take that leap, I do however, wish I’d had my keyboard in the shower this morning. Some of my most cogent, cohesive thoughts flow from my brain as the water flows over my body. If only I had the long-enough term memory to later channel brain thoughts into keyboard strokes. By the time I’ve squeegeed the shower stall, toweled off, and slapped moisturizer on my face, any semblance of shower-based inspiration has circled down the drain along with the water.

Have you had the experience of expressing yourself so clearly and logically in your head, constructing a prize-winning piece of prose or oration only to sputter all over when it’s time to make it real? That. Plus, running water + electronic devices = disaster.

News Flash!!! Let me tell you about my friend Ann’s success as an illustrator. Ann is a wonderfully talented artist, whose friend, Kelly Nelson, a wonderfully talented children’s book author, tapped her to illustrate her new book. To date, I’ve only seen a few of Ann’s early drafts and unfinished plates, but I could not be more proud of and excited for my friend! Ann is as good a human as the world has to offer. She’s so kind, freaking hilarious and lightning-quick with a comeback or aside guaranteed to slay. Ann is compassionate and loyal, and I hope everyone gets to have a friend like her in their life. For the longest time, I described Ann as my friend Barb’s best friend, which is true, but I’ve now eliminated the adjacent part and feel fortunate to refer to her as my friend.

Their book is titled The Carpenter and the Cat, available for pre-order.

Thinking of how decent and good Ann is somehow steered my brain to a 180-degree tailspin. Shower-me kept saying (well not saying of course, but thinking) that I just don’t get mean people. I just don’t get people who avoid introspection in favor of casting stones. I just don’t get people who aren’t happy unless someone else is necessarily sad. I just don’t get people who find fault at every turn except their own, always instead on the attack. I just don’t get people who find joy in stomping on the fingers of people one rung below them on the ladder. I just don’t get people screaming hurtful things at people who make easy targets–trust me, the outliers know they’re outliers–and your cruelty says more about you than it does them.

That’s not at all how it sounded in my head in the shower, but that’s the gist of it.

The chatter is constant and there’s so much noise right now. I’m in desperate need of quiet. I don’t even listen to music in the car much these days, in pursuit of peace and quiet. Maybe that’s why my shower stall, with its falling water ambient noise, is the place where ideas come to me and flow uninterrupted? Along with some anticipated visits (including one from Ann!), I must carve out some quiet time during this break in the school calendar. I hope to make time for nothing, creating space and time for my thoughts to flow, not race, as thoughts too-frequently do.

Be more like the characters in Kelly and Ann’s nonfiction book–helpful, concerned, of service. It costs exactly nothing to be a decent human–please consider making the investment.

Be well. Take good care, everyone.

Route 57

My baby had three exams last week and decided it was time for a quick change of scenery. He hopped a bus from the union at his university to Milwaukee and I was all warm and fuzzy inside knowing I’d have him under our roof for a couple overnights. Extra special icing on top of the cake–we got a visit from our bonus son, his best friend, for a day and an overnight too. I cooked one good dinner, one good breakfast, and chowed down way too many donuts in way too little time. Time well spent.

We arrived at the bus/train station to retrieve our boy Friday evening about five minutes before his bus was due. The Amtrak had just departed the station and I saw one bus offloading passengers, so with all the people awaiting their pick up it was a miracle that we got primo parking amid all the back and forth. My husband put the car in “P” and I began texting my son to tell him where we’d parked when I saw a man fall down in the middle of the crosswalk.

I shouted to my husband to go help the man but quickly remembered that running into traffic is something no longer in his can-do set of superpowers. So I did.

It felt like a really long time between his fall and my reaching him, but it was probably only a matter of seconds in real time. My brain kept expecting to see someone else leap from their car to his aid, but no one did. Which is not to suggest that no one would have, just that I was close and didn’t have to abandon a running car. He’d dropped his shopping bag filled with items that, along with his cane, scattered across the pavement. I picked up his cane, helped him up, and collected and re-bagged the gentleman’s purchases. In a complete role reversal from the old-school Boy Scout trope, this old lady helped an old gentleman cross the street.

Thank stars traffic from both west and east waited through their green light until we two made it safely across St. Paul Avenue. I half-expected some yahoo to start honking or hollering at us given the fragile state of human decency these days, but we were granted safe passage. Score one for humanity being on its best behavior.

Idling across the street were two county transit buses, one ready to pull out and the second waiting to move up onto that soon-to-be vacated corner. I was hoping he needed the second because we needed another minute or two under the circumstances. This poor man didn’t look badly injured, but he used a cane for support before falling and didn’t at all appear solid on his feet. I don’t know if he’d hit his head or had any new injury from his fall, but I wanted to be sure he got on the bus he intended. Being winter in the Midwest, he had frozen snowbanks to scale to reach the bus door.

The bus driver couldn’t have been more kind. I can’t say if she saw the fall and recovery effort, but she sensed we needed help. By this time, I could tell he wanted to be rid of me and find his seat on the bus. Or just be rid of me. Or just find his seat on the bus. He quickly and shakily began trudging back through another snowbank toward the door when the driver saw him struggling. She opened the door and first confirmed with me which route he needed and I steered him toward the correct bus, hers, Route 57. She motioned to a narrow, shoveled area ahead, pulling up as far as she could and somewhat widely so he had a clear, accessible path to her door. I thanked her, she thanked me, and he thanked me as I loaded him and his shopping bags on the bus. The driver wore a warm, welcoming smile.

Heading back across St. Paul Avenue toward our car, in the crosswalk, enjoying the full white-light glow of the “Walk” traffic signal definitely NOT jaywalking, I almost got taken out myself by a woman turning left. She looked annoyed at me, like I was the asshole in this scenario. I’m sure the death glare on my face cleared up any confusion she had over who had the right of way. I get that it’s downtown and not everyone knows their way around or feels comfortable in Friday evening traffic, but I was happy she wasn’t on the street those few minutes earlier when I was in the middle of it.

The whole interaction took three minutes tops, but I keep thinking about him. I sure hope he escaped injury and made it home safely. And hey, three cheers for the Milwaukee County Transit System Friday Night Route 57 Driver! Thank you for being the right person at the right time.

What Do You Like About Your Job?

Fun facts. Icebreakers. Get to know yous. . . Ughhhhhhhhhh

I didn’t used to dislike this activity until I, like most of the rest of the adult learners I know, recognized them for the stress-inducers they can be. Like, I know my name, I know where I work: why am I practicing how I’ll say my own name as others introduce themselves and share their “fun fact?” The whole time the other group members are contributing to the pool of intros and “fun facts,” I’m silently repeating my name, my school district, and frantically scouring my brain for the personal touch that’s appropriate to share with colleagues who are actually quite lovely but honestly don’t care one single bit about the factoid I’ve spent the previous four and a half minutes rehearsing.

My technology failed at the opening of a Zoom meeting yesterday. My laptop’s audio component was misbehaving, so I found myself logging in and out of the meeting before serendipitously landing on the correct combination of right clicks to get my earbuds instead of my external speakers connected.

What’s more anxiety-provoking than professional meeting icebreakers? BEING LATE TO THE MEETING and NOT HEARING what the icebreaker is. Thank stars the facilitator called out a few others before my turn and I’m pretty good at making inferences. I NAILED my name and school district I represented, you guys. **applause, please** And I was positioned to answer the icebreaker prompt honestly and sincerely: What do you like about your job?

I complain a lot about a lot in my work as a public school special educator employed in a district with tragically low achievement and the highest poverty rates in the state. I complain a lot because there is a lot about which to complain. And that was before the highest office in the land saw fit to dismantle the Department of Education (by the way, it’s abbreviated ED, not DoE). I complain not because I find blanket bitch sessions especially productive, but rather because the inequities and blatant lies spread and worse, believed, are more than my heart can take. I complain because our SLPs are expected to do more and more and more with less and less and take a beating in the media and by “friends” on social media platforms. More on this soon.

This week? This week was a good one and I was more than ready to share what I loved about my job. I’m working in an elementary school this year and I LOVE MY SCHOOL! I complained a real lot between October and December as my caseload grew from 12 to 29. When I talk about doing more with less, imagine this–imagine being assigned to a school for two half-days a week. Even 12 kids in two half days was a push, but I made it work. Each week, new students got enrolled while other students transferred into our school and I found myself responsible for service provision for 29 kids.

No one can schedule meaningful, productive therapy groups for 29 kids, ranging in age from 3-11 with functional communication systems ranging from non-speaking kids to kids who stutter to kids whose speech is highly unintelligible to kids who can’t answer questions or express themselves in sentences in two half days. So, unbeknownst to my supervisor, I stayed at my school for two full days each week, which BTW, was still an insufficient allotment of time to see 29 students!!

The administrators, teachers, and staff in my school are hard-working and committed educators. Entering the building, you immediately feel an orderliness and sense of community. The staff doesn’t turn over often here because of the community they’ve built. They have had a lot of changes in the speech-language pathologist staff there over the last six years. No one has said it, but I’d have understood if they’d kept me at professional arm’s length. I’m working hard to convince them I’m there for the long haul because it’s how I feel.

Two weeks ago, our department added more speech-language time and I’m back down to 13 students AND I have gained a really wonderful co-SLP at my school. I can exhale for the first time since October, but I struggled dividing up my caseload. These kids, all of them, became MY kids. I’ve facilitated progress in each and every kid’s communication skills and I’m super proud of the work I’ve done. Giving up any of my kids felt like desertion. I mean, look at this cutie on Polar Express Day!

My students have taught me so much this year already. I’ve been challenged, highly challenged to meet the needs of students with disabilities I’d not had much previous experience. I spent the first six weeks feeling full-on imposter syndrome. I’m pleased to say that I’m working my butt off on my kids’ behalf (and mine too–it feels so good to feel so good!) and feeling less an imposter and more a lifelong learner. Cheesy? Sure. Accurate? Yep.

I have the privilege to know a number of high support autistic kids and am working to support their communication with pictures, picture boards, speech, gestures, and voice output communication aids. I’m fortunate to know kids with neuromuscular diseases and heavy psychiatric diagnoses and I’m excited to be the one facilitating their communication progress. I get to team teach and spend time in classrooms learning from creative, generous colleagues. It’s so great to text a parent (yes, texting is the method by which we are most likely to make contact) with a quick update on how hard their kid worked that day or how accurate their child was in their target sound production during their session.

This is not to say that every day is a sun-soaked meadow dotted with daisies and dancing unicorns. Some of my students face challenges I’ll never experience. I’ve never truly known hunger or want. I’ve always had a warm winter coat, clean clothes, and a safe, warm bed of my own to lay my head upon at night. Some days my students are mad or sad and they don’t know or cannot explain why. Some days my kids can’t pay attention to anything for more than eight seconds. Some days they rip stuff off the walls or scream or cry or throw toys or kick me or take off. And I still love it. I’m exhausted when I get home. It’s a “good” tired.

Last week Thursday I briefly chatted with our school engineer. We had a snow day Wednesday so kids and teachers were off, but he was at school removing snow and keeping the fires warm. I thanked him for doing such a great job clearing the snow from the parking lot and walkways. I can’t quote verbatim, but the gist of our conversation struck and stuck. He said that he took all his responsibilities at our school seriously because the task at hand, educating our children, is incredibly important. He acknowledged the hard work of teachers, adding that if he is able to help teachers by cleaning up a mess or something as small as delivering a box of Kleenex tissue, he’s happy to do it. I thanked him for taking a minute to talk and told him how glad I was to have run into him.

I’m not looking forward to the next virtual meeting’s icebreaker, but I was definitely ready for this one.

I’ll live out my days wondering just how we got here, tearing down public education, accusing public schools of pushing absurd agendas, states suing to end disability rights, religious schools funded by public taxpayers. . . Critical thinking matters. So does human decency. Guess a whole lot of people were absent the day those lessons were taught.