Polar Vortex

It’s the fifth consecutive school day off.  In case you’ve been living under a rock, a boulder really, you know it’s downright frigid here in the Midwest.  Baby, it’s cold outside.  It’s cold inside too.

The frost is inside our kitchen. Inside!

When my babies were babies, Jody, their day care provider would usher them into her house with the warning that if they didn’t hustle, they’d “freeze their frips off.”  To this day, the exact meaning of “frips” remains a mystery to me, but I will guarantee that whatever frips you have would become fripcicles in an instant this week.  Bars are beer delivery are shut down.  IN WISCONSIN, you guys.  Delivery of the US Mail has been suspended, and workers whose jobs take them outdoors, like my husband, have been given the option to take vacation time instead of repairing streetlights, which this week is essentially a suicide mission.  Some vacay.  Well at least he’s still got his frips!

Cabin Fever has begun to set in however.  Ennui abounds (or lies there doing nothing, more accurately), and even my children, slaves to their electronic devices, want to go back to school.  They miss their friends.  That biology exam keeps getting pushed back, which sure, means more time to study, but let’s be honest about the fidelity of that process. . .  YouTube has lost some of its luster, and even my dear, dear roommates, the boys’ best TV friends, the Impractical Jokers guys, are enjoying a brief hiatus at Chez Weir.  Summer vacation is different–even when it rains, you won’t die going outside–there’s always somewhere to go, something to do.  You know the fever’s bad when the kids want to go to school.  And NOT until the end of June.  I’ll be curious to see how many of these days will be required to be made up and how the district determines just how it will make them up.

There are myriad activities to enjoy, or if not enjoy, then just do, when you’re housebound though.  I thought I’d share with you a few of the ways we’ve been passing the time this Polar Vortex.

  1. Yoga: I rolled out my mat Tuesday morning, and before I could remove my socks, my idiot dog had commandeered my mat, laid out, covering the whole thing in what I call his frog-dog position. *eye roll/sigh*  Caleb is better at downward facing dog than I am, but that’s only because his snout is in my face while I breathe deeply seeking zen.  Idiot.  I love him.
  2. Watching Bosch on Amazon Prime: I’ve faithfully read the entire Harry Bosch series from author Michael Connelly as he’s cranked out each volume, though ’til now have avoided the screen adaptation.  I’m one of those “it’s better in my imagination” types so I’ve stayed away, but they’re worthy mysteries.  I enjoy Titus Welliver’s embodiment of Bosch, and I like how the series has updated some of the details to lend a modern feel.  I love that Bosch remains an vinyl LP-spinning, old-school jazz guy, and that not every actor is a perfect physical specimen. I mean, they’re all TV-pretty, but not unbelievably so.
  3. Culling through stemware: As a rule, I’m a moderate-to poor housekeeper.  We don’t live in squalor, but I suck at making things pretty, and this includes my ability to display china and crystal.  I ditched three mismatched wine glasses (I’m guessing each the lone remnant from a one-time set of four), a couple vases and two candleholders. I purchased that Marie Kondo hold-onto-your-shit-and-see-if-it-sparks-joy book four years back.  It sat, spine barely cracked, on my nightstand every day since until I finally gave it to a coworker just last week.  You’d have to strap me down and tape my eyes open to make me watch the tidying up show.  Just not my jam.
  4. Culling through greeting cards: There is an excellent reason to keep some of these missives.  You’re reminded just how spectacular others believe you to be, even if only for a brief and shining moment.  It’s a happy stroll down memory lane mostly, with a few bittersweet moments–like the transition from the kids’ birthday cards being signed ” With love from Gramma Terry and Poppa” to only “With love from Gramma Terry.”  I held onto all our wedding cards, the welcome baby cards, and a few sympathy/support cards from when the big kid’s diagnosis was handed down.  I say this all the time, but you wish you had the friends I have, you really do.
    img_3065

    In an example of my poor organizational strategy, I unearthed this photo, stashed in the greeting card drawer. Awwwwww. This is truly one of the best-ever photos of the tall one! So pure.

  5. Family Game Night:  There is nothing like a game of Sorry or Uno to learn exactly where family allegiances lie.  It’s generally agreed that the individual producing the highest volume of sass and trash-talk (my husband) is the common enemy.  I’m a little disturbed though at my children’s ease and delight in throwing down a Draw Four or Sorry card in my direction though.
  6. Reading a couple Harry Dolan books:  The two I’ve read are set in Ann Arbor, Michigan which is where my friend Kristen used to live.  According to her, Ann Arbor is cool (I’ve visited only once and had a lovely, murder-free experience), collegiate and literary like the novels, but not as vibrant with intrigue and killing.  Thinking about Kristen makes me think about how we met, through Barenaked Ladies (she, an uber-uber-uber-uber fan and pretty cool chick otherwise too), so there’s a totally weird connection that in all the world can only be made in my brain.  Then you can while away a surprisingly large sum of time thinking about the upcoming summer Barenaked Ladies tour, and the fact you’re not going.
  7. Baking a really shitty cake: You know those Pinterest pins and Facebook videos that suggest you can make a box-mix cake taste like a bakery cake if you simply add an extra egg, substitute milk for water, and melt butter?  DO NOT DO THIS.  Well, don’t do this unless you want a cake that rises, then settles like a brick.  We legit laughed out loud after we let it cool.  The “cake” did not retain even one inch of its height.
  8. Cleaning out the spice cabinet:  I have an entire kitchen cabinet of spices, not just what one might consider a spice cabinet, but a wall o’ flavor.  After our kitchen remodel, I organized them alphabetically, sorted by cooking vs. baking spices (nerd, and FYI, my closet is a rainbow, sorted by color).  Naturally, spice blends like Montreal Steak Seasoning, Emeril’s Essence, or Garam Masala occupied their own shelf.  Over time, I’ve come to just toss them back in (see Number 3 above for my statement about my housekeeping prowess), but now I’m good for another two years or so.
  9. Public Library Time:  I love spending time at the library, just hanging out, browsing amid the shelves.  I took the kids before the deepest segment of the deep freeze kicked in and the city closed the libraries.  I think about library patrons whose only warmth comes from an open public space, such as what libraries provide, and think I’m not as grateful as I should be for the good fortune of a thermostat.  And the house the thermostat serves.
  10. Preparing for my dog’s girlfriend’s birthday party: I’m just going to close with that entirely true statement here.

The one thing I absolutely cannot do is catch up on the mountain of work that was already a foothill of work before these days off.  When I left work last Thursday, I never in my wildest dreams believed I’d have a week off.  I can’t access any of my data, observation notes, or historical records from which to draft my reports. They are locked up nice and tight, safe and sound in my desk.

My kids wanna go back to school, a big enough shock to stand on its own merit, and *gasp* so do I!

Five Cents, Please

Nine-to-fourteen inches of snow was the prediction.  Grocery lanes were jammed with customers stocking their larders (if larders were a thing in 2019 urban Milwaukee) with the necessities a snowpocalypse demands.  Cancellations flurried in late Sunday afternoon, then dumped en masse and at the speed of light.  Kids rejoiced, then made a mad dash for sleds and snowpants.  School district superintendents pushed their social media campaigns for the most clever delivery of snow day school closings (the dude from Missouri Valley wins all, this week or last, hands down).

I was delighted not to have to set an alarm this morning and I’m relieved not to be navigating snow-covered, ice-crusted roads, not gonna lie about that, friends, but I expected more from “thundersnow.”  Though it’s picking up again, I believe they oversold it.

I spent a too-short weekend partially prostrate on my friend Ann’s couch.  Too short in part to my eagerness to avoid the impending doom of the snowpocalypse.  I really have become a wuss as my years on this earth advance.  Maybe I’m smarter too, but mostly, I’m much less a risk-taker than I once was.  Hoping to avoid an early arrival by Mother Nature, I hit the road before noon Sunday.

83df781536d2f67fdb388e148298036e-peanuts-cartoon-snoopy-peanuts

Thank you to the inimitable Charles M. Schulz for his colorful characters with character.

In my little Peanuts metaphor, Ann is Lucy Van Pelt, dispensing psychiatric advice, and yours truly stars, or slumps really, in the role of Charlie Brown, trying to make sense of my anxieties.  I write about stuff here, but there, on her grey couch resting my head on the most calming, nuanced shade of coral accent pillows, is where I talked.  I won’t bore you with the details, but voicing the words, “I think I bordered on depressed for a few days” was cathartic.  Saying those words helped me realized I’m already rising through, returning to equilibrium.  Five cents, please.

Other thoughts from the couch. . .

Botox

No, I haven’t gone under the needle, but twice since Saturday and with two different friends, it’s come up.  My BFF just had bangs cut into her naturally platinum spiral locks–“cheap Botox” she claimed.  I wear my glasses more frequently, masking those deep, deep, deep furrow lines between my brow with chunky tortoiseshell frames.  I thought the laugh lines would be the most prominent as I aged, but it would seem I’m less jolly than I imagined myself, my face wearing worry or anger more often.  Boo.

I once proclaimed that I would NEVER consider plastic surgery.  I was 35 then, the hell did I know??  I am vain though, and I probably would shoot my face full of toxins if I weren’t terror-stricken that I’d become paralyzed, or worse, dead as a result.  I like my smile lines–wouldn’t change those.  And no, my lips aren’t as elastic as they’d been, but who wants to look like any one of the thousands of “Housewives” along with other celebrities, barely recognizable as humanoids anymore??  I mean besides the thousands lining up every month at their plastic surgeon’s office.  Stop the madness, ladies!  And gentlemen, for that matter.

The Next Revolution Renaissance

In education, we endure cycles of pendulum swings. In 2019 THIS is what’s best for kids, we’re told.  You’ve been doing it all wrong, y’all–THIS [insert new thing here] is the best approach to learning.  Stick around long enough and you’ve heard it all–Whole Language, Direct Instruction, Site-Based Management, Multiple Intelligences, School Choice (let’s just DON’T), Learning Styles, Problem Solving, Understanding a Framework of Poverty, Differentiated Instruction, Whole-Small-Whole Group Instruction, Full Inclusion, Common Core State Standards, Standards-Based Grading, Trauma-Informed Care, Social-Emotional Learning, Interventions, School-to-Work, College and Career Ready, Mindfulness, Every kid gets a Chromebook!  Geez, my fingers need a break from just typing!

Ann and I observed how the pendulum’s swing hasn’t quite returned to the opposite arc–instead it’s pinging at a near 90-degree angle.  When will we inch back to what teachers know actually works?  When will pedagogy be stripped from politicians and big-money publishing houses to be returned to teachers, you know, the ones who teach??  What will it take?  I used the term revolution; Ann more astutely remarked that we are lying in wait for the next age of enlightenment, the next renaissance.

I sometimes feel that my children are part of some half-assed social experiment.  Their time having been enrolled in formal education has seen more changes than in any period in my career. I eagerly await this Renaissance.  I’m happy this neo-Renaissance of which I dream comes with indoor plumbing and vaccinations though.  Science is real, yo.

Politics and the Government Shutdown

Nope.  Not touching it.  You know me?  You know where I stand.  I thank my lucky stars that I have Ann’s grey couch to dive deeply into ideas and ideals.  And lunacy.

Transgender Individuals

My son related to his father and me a conversation he’d had with a friend who is transgender about this individual’s identifying with the gender opposite the one at birth.  My son was working out the pronouns, and what I loved most about this chat was that his friend being transgender was really a sidebar to matter of this friend bringing “Cards Against Humanity” and “What Do You Meme?” to play during some free time after school, about which he was deeeeeeeee-lighted.  Those games are so inappropriate.  So stinkin’ funny though, and let me be your cautionary tale–they’re not games kids want to play with their parents nor parents with their kids.  I’m still blushing. . .

Brewers On Deck

My baby, the 6′ thirteen-year-old multi-sport athlete, through his baseball organization, had an opportunity to attend Brewers On Deck.  On Deck is a massive fan fest where Milwaukee Brewers baseball players are made to make themselves available for a day-long meet and greet.  Fans wait in line for autographs and photos.  The event sells out annually, and with a tuxedo-clad Christian Yelich having just received his MVP award the night prior, the kids’ entry was a premium!  The kid was ready to go, but begged off at the last minute.  He had a chance to meet his idol, Travis Shaw, but declined.  I’m told he crashed the boards and crashed his knee Saturday morning during his basketball game, so wasn’t at top form physically.  I can’t help but wonder if he has a touch of his mother’s anxiety though–he was petrified to meet Barenaked Ladies (granted, he was seven at the time) and he didn’t feel like it was OK to approach Alan Doyle after a show in Chicago a few years back either.  I think he’s an “I’m gonna admire them from afar” kind of guy.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that; there’s not.  But I don’t want him to throw away his shot.

2019 MDA Muscle Walk

Yep, I’m already ratcheting up about the timing of this year’s walk.  My younger son has a baseball tournament out of town that weekend, so I already know my husband and I are going to have to split time.  This year’s event is June 1, scheduled with hopes of warmer weather prevailing on walk day.  My son is “lucky” that his MD doesn’t come with the side dish of massive internal complications that many kids with MD endure.  But now I’m prematurely anxious/guilty about picking.  In missing one or the other, which child will be deemed  or feel more “worthy” of my attention, will all of us have all the right gear in the right city?

Anxiety is dumb.  But that’s the thing about anxiety–it’s worrying about something that might never happen.  But that doesn’t mean you don’t worry; you can’t help but worry.  It’s the very definition of anxiety.  I know I’ll be at the Muscle Walk, so why is this even a thing?

Probably I’ll figure that one out on my next visit down to Ann’s.  Miss you already, sweet girl.

To Hell And Back

My benchmark for social media sharing is “Would I be ashamed if my grandma or the superintendent of schools read what I’ve written?”  I crack wise, gush about my kids, marvel at my dog’s behavior, beg for money to support our MDA walk team, but I almost never sprinkle politics in with my friendly middle-aged musings.

It’s not that I fear offending anyone on the other side of the fence, and I certainly expect to change no one’s mind by sharing misleading headlines or clickbait that advance my point of view.  I just don’t.  Venom is out there, as easy to inhale as the very air we breathe.  I don’t want to be part of division.  I’m an adder togetherer.  Most of the time addition is the mathematics function suits me best.

At the Tuesday evening budget meeting of the Milwaukee Board of School Directors, Amy Mizialko, vice president of the Milwaukee Teachers Education Association (VP of union thugs like myself), was told to “go to hell” by a member of the school board.  Twice.  Amy stood at the podium questioning a suggested solution to looming budget deficits, asking for solutions that benefit or impact least, I suppose, children, families, and educators.

She singled out director Michael Bonds in her testimony, responding to an earlier proposal, a proposal that in my opinion creates a false dichotomy of budget options. The proposal suggests an either/or: teacher raises or cutting bussing for specialty schools. Other places to cut are out there (of course, I’d like to see people care about education and ADD to school budgets actually), but it’s now made to seem like the greedy teachers want what they want at the expense of students.

Yes, she called him by name, and his response? “You can go to hell.”  She looked stunned for only a microsecond by his words as she backed way from the microphone, but regrouped in a heartbeat and clarified, “I should go to hell?”

“Yeah, you should go to hell, you called my name out.”

THAT is how one of my district’s elected officials responds to its families and educators. And before he walked out of the meeting, he blasted teachers for test scores.

I send my children to the district in which I work.  I haven’t decided which part of my heart hurts more–the one that represents the twenty-seven years I’ve committed to the children of my city, or the one that represents my two children I’ve committed to a district who tells their mother to go to hell.  I’ve cried–at home and at work since the news came to my attention Wednesday morning.

I called the school board member who represents my district, whom I helped elect to her seat on the board.  I didn’t know what precisely to say (I mean besides the obvious), and I couldn’t offer a solution, but I had to say something.  I couldn’t not say something. I called as a parent who was disgusted and embarrassed, a parent whose children deserve better from the highest ranking district officials.  I spoke to our children about his outburst, telling them how angry I was that he disrespected their teachers, and that their teachers deserve better. I didn’t ask for nor do I expect a call back from my director, but I wish I would have had the clarity in the moment that Amy had when she responded the next evening by saying sure, we can go to hell. We go to hell and back every day for our students.

THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT FOR YOUR CHILDREN.  You want teachers willing to go to hell and back for them, to do whatever it takes to reach and teach them.  Only thirty percent of my job is direct student contact at this time, and while I sometimes miss therapy and full-time student contact, I fret that I’d feel beat-down too hard/much to be 100% at all times. 100% is what our kids deserve.

Parents, you want and your kids deserve teachers willing to go to the ends of be earth for your children. Public education is a cornerstone of enlightened society. Demonizing your community’s educators is one sure way not to attract and retain excellent, committed professionals. But I won’t even begin down the privatization of public education path here. Some other day.

For years I’ve been saying that we’ll never “fix” schools until we “fix” the problems underlying impoverished communities. If you think my job is cushy because I don’t work in July, please come spend a day on 3rd & Ring Street with me, or cruise up Atkinson Avenue en route to my office and hang for an hour or two.

This collection of paragraphs is brought to you by a potty-mouthed (but never overtly cruel in my profanity) public educator. No shame in that, is there Grandma?

In Vain

Actually,  it DOES.  Guilty means precisely that.  Our ubiquitous friend Google provides these two definitions for the adjective guilty:

  • culpable of or responsible for a specified wrongdoing
  • justly chargeable with a particular fault or error

I think the message the De Los Santos Law Offices, LLC means to convey is that they can get you off.  I understand “guilty” and “convicted” carry entirely different semantic shades under the law.  But to me guilty means guilty as it relates to personal responsibility, right?   Google turned up a third definition:

  • conscious of or affected by a feeling of guilt

Too frequently, I see a distinct lack of being affected by a feeling of guilt, in point of fact. “I didn’t do it.”  “She made me do it.”  “Prisons are filled with innocent people.”  This, in a perfect nutshell of a mammoth commercial billboard, is why I am having a really hard time at work these days.  The defeatism and frustration I’m trudging through aren’t novel workplace emotions in my experience.  Various forms and degrees of professional-becoming-personal malaise have cycled through dark periods of weeks, months, years during my nearly three decades as a public educator.  Right now I just can’t handle the flippant meanness.  The lack of personal responsibility for one’s actions screams at me every day.  Literally screams.  At me.  At the other adults with whom I work.

I spotted this billboard on the ride to my office from my new school assignment last week.  It so happens that this billboard is visible from the windows and yard of the  Women’s Correctional Facility adjacent to the building on which it’s posted.  To drive past the corrections facility’s unassuming brick facade, you’d think it houses more a commercial bakery maybe, or a 70’s-era office building than a prison.  But it is a prison, and the law firm’s intent is clear in its placement.  They’re a business–I understand basic marketing tenets regarding its placement specifically there by the law firm–but its message is so counter to my personal system of beliefs, I just can’t abide it.

Teachers and other school staff member like myself spend our days teaching the exact opposite of this message to our <a href=”http://Enroll“>enrollees, and we spend our nights planning and preparing lessons and materials to teach that, to engage students meaningfully and productively.  This message–you can do wrong (you know–assault, robbery, murder, vandalism, grand theft auto, whatevs), but we’ll try to get you out of it because it’s not your fault–is the diametric opposite of what teachers want to see and have happen to students.

I shared a photo last week of the pellet holes in my classroom window, and despite what you may think bullet holes in windows means, I LIKE my school.  I like my students, I like the staff members I’ve met over the last couple weeks, and I like the building.  Ah, the building.  The school has to be one hundred and ten years old if it’s a day.  It is grand.  It was grander once, but now it’s tired.  Still gorgeous in its architecture though.  Wooden staircases and floors gleam.  The stair risers are rounded out from square after a century of  little feet climbing and descending the steps.  Detailed woodwork adorns door and window frames, built-in storage cabinets line the walls of coatrooms, and messages of peace and empowerment are stencilled in the hallways.  The building was constructed during a period where public education was viewed as a cornerstone of society; education, and the buildings where children were sent for their lessons, mattered.  Architectural details, like those I see here, were included in schools’ designs in the early twentieth century, and details like those in my school did not come cheaply, so the import of education was demonstrated in the way city fathers funded schools.

It’s hard to imagine a time where budget cuts were not the first and only thing that mattered when society discussed how it educated its children. Is it possible to wax nostalgic for a time I never personally experienced?

I’ve long said that we can’t improve schools (the almighty test scores) until we improve the conditions under which students live.  The critical importance of safe, stable housing underlies Matthew Desmond’s brilliant Evicted, Poverty and Profit in the American City.  His first-person research into housing in Milwaukee provided an uncomfortable read, and left this reader with the conclusion that slumlording is a profitable venture and that having a safe, regular place to lie your head at night yields better outcomes for people.

“it is hard to argue that housing is not a fundamental human need. Decent, affordable housing should be a basic right for everybody in this country. The reason is simple: without stable shelter, everything else falls apart.”

“Eviction is a cause, not just a condition, of poverty.”

From EDWeek.org, this discouraging statistic about kids who come from behind, and not in a romantic sports “comeback kid” kind of way: 

“At schools in which more than half of students lived in poverty, only 6 percent of students far behind in reading in 8th grade and 3 percent of those far behind in math and science were deemed ready for college and careers by the end of high school.”

80% of the students in my district are identified as economically disadvantaged.  But I digress.  I know blogs are supposed to be focused, but I’m not hyper-focused on muscular dystrophy this week.  It’s OK if you take a break from me and spend your valuable reading time elsewhere.  I sure wouldn’t blame you.  I’ve found that writing has been a balm to soothe this moody, savage beast (OK, and like the old adage, music too, obviously), and I need to find and reclaim my happy.  I’m driving my co-workers bonkers, and coming home crying isn’t helping my bad attitude.  So I write.  I can’t change the world, after twenty-seven years, I understand that’s a foolhardy expectation.  But I can change little things in my students’ lives, so I keep trying.  And I can change me.  Just not today quite yet.  I’m still snappy and ornery.

It’s so naive to say “be kind” and expect that people will be just ’cause; it’s so easy to say “take responsibility for your actions” and print it on a poster, but how does that message become part of one’s makeup? I can’t afford to take out my own billboard, but I’ve got to do something besides avoiding that corner during my travels.

Kids Who Bring Light To This World

Number One Son was inducted into his school’s chapter of the National Junior Honor Society last December.  Understatement and underenthusiasm being two of his special gifts–he IS a seventh grade boy after all–I knew little of what to expect.  Students were selected based on their grades, there was an application asking for community service and outside interests and activities, and later a confirmation and invitation to the induction ceremony.  This was the sum total of my process knowledge.

It was a bigger deal than expected.  The ceremony itself was solemn, thoughtful.  Middle schoolers carried a gravitas I didn’t know they knew of themselves.  There were formal speeches, candles, blood signatures on parchment (OK, pen on paper), and an oath upon their swearing in.  During the principal’s address at the ceremony’s closing, she spoke to the members, inductees and audience about leadership, about doing the right thing for the greater good.  She spoke of the rancorous presidential campaign and election, and the divisiveness it engendered.  That we were at odds with ourselves, we citizens, and how she saw in these children, a light. These were kids who bring light to this world, she announced.  After a regular day, it can feel burdensome to turn it back around and head back to school for an evening function (although I don’t believe she used the term burdensome; I’m paraphrasing here), but how the light these kids, MINE included, share with the world was uplifting and motivating enough to make returning for an evening function a joy.  You know I had tears in my eyes–it’s how I roll.

Saturday marks exactly two years since the tall one was diagnosed with neuromuscular disease.  I’ve not spent one single day of my life since then not wishing otherwise.  I would do anything, anything!, to make things easier for him.  When we work together on his OT core strengthening exercises, I’d love for him not to look at me and ask how it’s so easy for me to position and move my body the way I do.  When I hold my hand stock still, I’d love for him not to tremor and twitch as he compares.  I’d love to watch him pop up from a seated position and not have to rely on a four-point stance.  Simple movement that unless you’ve experienced injury, is easy, much taken for granted.  I’d love never to hear him slam the piano keyboard in frustration because I JUST DID IT YESTERDAY, WHY CAN’T I PLAY IT NOW??

I crack wise here in these pages, and my posts are not always MD-specific anymore.  I now paint with broader brushstrokes here in my blog–I write not only to rant and vent about muscular dystrophy, but also now to (I think, OK I hope??) entertain.  I will try to take my kids’ school principal’s words to heart and try to share light instead of the bleakness that blanketed me two years ago.

Through my broken brain and fussy keyboard, I’ve shared stories that have actually helped people.  I did something!  I’ve helped raise funds for the MDA; I’ve made people laugh and cry, and I don’t know any better compliment than someone saying, “Hey, I liked what you wrote about (insert any of my random, inappropriate subjects here), can I share your post with my friend/sister/cousin?”  YES!!  I’m never going to win a Pulitzer Prize or be featured in a Top 10 Barenaked Ladies-Parenting-Baseball Mom-Profanity is Fun-Muscular Dystrophy blogs compilation, and that’s OK. I’ve carved out my own little niche here, and it fits perfectly.


By now, y’all know I pretty much make my own rules here.  I mean, cake and margaritas appear in no Emily Post etiquette book or Pinterest wedding board for first anniversaries, and I totally owned that one last year. Why, just today, I received a beautiful cake and touching card from my friend and co-worker Cindy in recognition of the anniversary.  She felt tequila would be inappropriate in the workplace (for the record, I find margaritas always to be correct).  So I move to make the non-traditional second anniversary of my kid having a shitty disease gift a private #Ladiesladies-only Barenaked Ladies concert with obviously, a personal serenade of Did I Say That Out Loud?  Hey, I asked for a cake, and my friend made it happen, so there’s hope!  She remembered a year later, and that’s gotta count for something.  You gotta keep the faith, people!  Not to put too much pressure on you, Cindy, but you nailed Year One’s anniversary gift 363 days in.  So I’ll wait real quiet-like for the concert announcement. I’ll just be over here, ya know, just hangin’ around all patient and stuff.  I violated my no bakery rule, and ate one-fourth of the cake for dinner tonight. Not with. For. Happy anniversary to me. Or something. 

The traditional second anniversary gift is cotton.  So for The Deuce, I’m going to share again the shirt my kid helped design for our MDA Muscle Walk last year.  Yeah, I cried when he developed the text.  Like his NJHS induction ceremony, he held gravitas I wasn’t prepared to meet.

img_2169I swiped a graphic which read A Year Changes You A Lot for my one-year anniversary post. Yeah, it does.  Thank you for rolling with the changes with me here.  I’m such a work in progress. I’ll never celebrate a January 21, though I will try to face it with more strength and light.  Maybe my kid and I have more in common than I thought.  My love for him?  Still, always, greater than gravity.