Thankful

Our first Thanksgiving in Eufaula was a wonderful day. We invited a few people over who were in similar situation to us and ate ourselves silly. I must admit, however, that I didn't cook. The oven in our rental home is broken; it takes almost an hour to cook a frozen pizza. Thus, we ordered a 12 pound turkey and all the fixings from one of our local grocery stores, the Winn Dixie.

Later in the evening, after our company had left, we walked down to a new friend's home to share in their annual Thanksgiving tradition: a low country boil. Basically, a low country boil consists of sausage, potatoes, shrimp, and ears of corn all boiled together in an enormous pot in the backyard. We talked, sat by the bonfire and made new friends.

Here are a few photos from the day.

I had fun setting the table!Our guests: Robert and Lynn Murphy; Van Smith

Amelia enjoying the turkey

We told her to smile and this is what we got...:)Happy girl!

First Sunday in Eufaula

A man from our new church took these photos of Dave's first Sunday at First Presbyterian Church of Eufaula

The Processional (people don't like to sit in the first five rows)

Dave speaks passionately about the Reformation

A full church!

A bagpipe concert in the garden after church

Amelia playing in the garden

Half Full or Half Empty?

Five Things I Love About Eufaula So Far:
1. Sweater weather
2. Chocolate covered pecans (delivered by the pound)
3. The choir director and his wife who washed our windows in the dark before we arrived.
4. The "Playground of Dreams"
5. Sonic drive-through


Five Things I Hate About Eufaula So Far:
1. Roaches the size of my big toe
2. Men who sit shirtless on their front porch in 50 degree weather
3. No pumpkin patches
4. Cars with special "camoflauge" paint jobs (we've seen several)
5. Corporal punishment is alive and well in Eufaula City Schools

Sweet Home Alabama

The many months of our discernment process has finally birthed a decision: the Burgess family is heading to Eufaula, Alabama. Eufaula is a town of about 14,000 people and is located directly across the Chatahoochee River from Georgia. The nearest bookstore is 50 miles away, as is the nearest movie theater, obstetrician or shopping mall. Having lived the majority of my life in the urban paradise that is Southern California, I have been questioned as to whether this move to small town America is something I'm really ready for. I guess ignorance is bliss at this point. But I think I am ready for it. I'm ready for a little bit of quiet; for a place where stores close at noon on Saturday and don't open again until Monday; for a place where the hardware store still operates on a customer tab. For where I am in my life, this slower pace appeals to me.

Roots

About a month ago, as we were preparing to place our home on the market, Dave and I spent an afternoon re-landscaping the planter of our backyard patio. During the busy year, we had sort of let it overgrow in some areas and wither in others. It was a ratty mess of dying Queen Anne's Lace and leafless fruit trees. It was so bad, we decided to rip it all out and start over. So, we went to Lowe's and bought some hearty flowers that would thrive in the Saharan-like composition of our soil and in the unrelenting sunlight that the placement of our patio affords. It's a tough life for plants back there.

As we got down to the business of tearing out the mostly dehydrated plants, we hit a bit of a snag with the fruit trees. While most of the other plants came easily out of the dry soil, the fruit trees, our near death, stick-figure fruit trees, refused to be uprooted. We pulled, we cajoled, we took a spade and dug at their bases, only to find that while they looked as if their numbers were up, their roots had taken hold deep in the soil base. They had almost literally become a part of the property. So, we left them. And watered like crazy. A month later, our nearly departed fruit trees are experiencing a renaissance. They have leaves and lemon buds and are growing like hungry infants. We are so glad that their roots defied our expectations.

The imminence of our move across country has led, subconsciously or not, to another kind of pulling up of roots. In the past month, especially, I am aware that I have begun the process of mentally tugging a bit at the different friendships and other relationships in my life as I prepare to leave. Inevitably, some are going to wither and fade away, while others have unexpectedly developed roots so deep that they have become a part our family for a lifetime.

Moving is always traumatic and I know that the coming months will hold many tears and even more uncertainty. Though, I must admit, in many ways I am kind of looking forward to starting fresh and replanting. Whether it be in the rich red earth of Alabama or in the sandy soil of St. Louis, the landscape of our new garden will undoubtedly be different than the one we have here. But we know our "fruit trees" will always be where we left them and hopefully, those roots will only continue to deepen.

The Edge of Reason

Dave and I made a decision tonight about our already sizzling social life: we either have people over to our house or we hire a babysitter when we go out. At eighteen months, the toddler stage has done us in; we're finished with social outings where we linger over cocktails, appetizers and conversation with adults. For a while, at least.

This decision comes on the heels of several attempts at having dinner at the homes of friends who are almost, but not quite yet parents themselves. The latest attempt left me covered in vomit (twice) and feeling like an annoying friend, a bad mom and a terrible conversationalist. Upon our hasty departure just after the vomit and right before dinner was about to be served, I said to our host, "Thanks for everything and I hope that we didn't scare you!"

To which she replied, "Too late."

Subconciously, I was hoping that she would say it was alright; that the chaos we had brought to her house that evening was endearing, not annoying; that we were still fun to be around. The reality is that if one is not a parent yet, the energy and curiousity of someone else's eighteen month old is cute...for about an hour.

In Amelia's toddlerhood, Dave and I are getting jumped in to the business of being parents. We are learning more and more about the epic struggle between what we want and we need versus what she wants and she needs. The two are opposing forces looking for compromise: to work or not to work, to go out or to stay at home, to keep your sanity or watch an episode of Barney. What I'm finding is that more often it is not a compromise at all, but a choice. And she wins everytime. It doesn't feel like sacrifice, though, and that's because she's not someone else's eighteen month old. She's mine and this is her time.

Dance and the World Will Dance With You!

...Or maybe you'll just be that weirdo that everybody else watches. I love it! This is a pure and unadulterated good time. Sometimes I wish I was this guy. I stole this from my friend Melodie. Enjoy!

"Mr. Orange"

I don't know why it didn't occur to me to post this before. A wonderful old friend was killed in a head-on collision almost one month ago. This horrible accident has given me pause for several reasons, one of which I wrote about a few posts back. Another is that he leaves behind a wife, Bridget and a 3-year-old daughter, Kaitlyn. Those of us who are married and those of us who have children can especially empathize with the overwhelming emotional and financial responsibility of having to continue on without their spouse. For that reason, a fund has been set up in his daughter's name. Steve Ambriz gave an incredible amount to a community that he loved, and now the community has the opportunity to give back to his family. You may or may not have known Steve, but if you are able and feel inclined, donations can be made at the following website:

www.kaitlynfund.org

Or can be sent directly to:
Kaitlyn Ambriz Scholarship Fund
1940 N. Tustin Avenue
Suite #103
Orange, CA 92865


Please say a prayer for Steve's family...

Nine to Five: The Reality

As I said before, reality has set in. In a big way. While my nature tempts me to base my assessment of stay-at-home motherhood on this week alone, I am aware that this, like anything new, will take time and patience and a few prayers. That having been said, here is a typical day-in-the-life thus far:

8:15- Dave leaves for work; I panic as I consider the eight or so hours that stretch infinitely before me until he comes home again.
8:30- Amelia and I go to aerobics; the instructor sings along to pretty much every song. As if getting my desperately out- of- shape booty kicked all over the San Marcos Community Center wasn't bad enough.
10:30- Call Dave to ask if he knows where the pool key went; engage in witty banter with his secretary.
11:00-Water the plants in the backyard and spray Amelia with the hose (she loves it).
11:15- Make up another excuse to call Dave (i.e.- What time is the graduation party on Saturday?); apologize to his secretary for calling again; engage in more witty banter.
12:00- Make Amelia Macaroni N'Cheese for lunch. And peaches, from a can.
12:30- Put Amelia down for a nap. Pick up the living room. Do the dishes. Start the laundry; get sidetracked by The Jonbenet Ramsey E! True Hollywood Story. Correction: not just sidetracked, engrossed...
1:30- Dave calls; asks what I'm doing. I confess.
2:30- Amelia wakes up. We go to Sam's Club to pick up pictures; I buy a diet coke; peruse the aisles for things I don't need.
3:30- Call Dave again (his secretary leaves at 3) and ask him what time he is going to be home so I can plan dinner.
4:00- I make dinner; Amelia trashes the living room.
4:30- Take a "walk" around the block; I walk, Amelia runs. We visit the tot lot. She sees a dog, chases it, yelling, "woof" "woof!"
4:45- Pick up the living room.
5:00- Dave FINALLY arrives home. We eat dinner; Amelia throws half of her food on to the floor.
6:00- I pick up the living room; Amelia trashes it; I pick up the living room; Amelia trashes it; I give up.
6:30- Give Amelia a bath; put her in her pajamas; brush her teeth; read her "Guess How Much I Love You" and tear up at the sweet ending.
7:00- Put Amelia to bed.
7:10- Pick up the living room. Victory!
10:00- Fall asleep watching a re-run of The Daily Show.

It's not glamorous and I didn't expect that it would be, but it's FAR from the fanatasy I had envisioned. The first week wasn't, anyway. When all is said and done; when Amelia is fast asleep in her crib and the living room is finally picked up for the night, I know that staying home is the best decision that we could make for our family. I'll grow into it. And lest I become an irritation to my husband and a thorn in the side of his secretary, I'll learn how to not only be at home with Amelia, but how to be at peace at just being with Amelia. That's where the fantasy began in the first place.

Nine to Five: The Fantasy

I am in the midst of a career change. Last Wednesday, I packed up the rest of my files, said good-bye to my colleagues and moved all my "teacher stuff" into storage. Indefinitely. Usually, the end of a school year is liberating; this year it has been frightening. Now an entire week into it, I have experienced the full spectrum of emotions and in this short time developed a more complete respect for the vocation of a stay-at-home mom.

This was a particularly difficult year for me professionally and I spent a good deal of it romanticizing the idea of staying home. In my mind I weighed the options: being with my sweet little girl or combatting hormonal defiance. The choice seemed easy. I would learn to cook gourmet delicacies, have dinner ready at six every evening, and keep the house spotless. I would have time to read all the books I've ever wanted to read and I would also take up a new hobby like quilting or gardening. I would never again serve Amelia Spaghetti-O' s or frozen fishsticks or canned apricots; instead I would prepare everything from scratch. We would go to the park everyday and do lots of fun crafts like fingerpainting and hand turkeys. In the evening, I would take care of a little light ironing and still have the time and energy for a glass of wine and a game of Backgammon or Scrabble with my husband. It would be a domestic utopia.

And then reality set in...

My Cup Runneth Over...

Because of the recent untimely death of an old friend, many of my thoughts have centered upon what it means to live life and to live it abundantly. I've spent the the past few days pouring over newspaper articles and blogs, reading tributes to his service in the community and anecdotes about his passion for family and friends. At his funeral on Wednesday, I was moved beyond words to see the number of lives that he touched and am honored to be one of them. When tragedies such as this occur in our midst, life assumes a certain poignancy, a richness, that reminds me to more fully live in the here and now; to not let a single moment escape.

A minute ago, Dave swung open the bedroom door and chuckling to himself, repeated in great length a joke he had just heard. Momentarily annoyed by the disruption, I remembered what I was writing about and tried to put myself fully in that moment, not because the joke was particularly funny (it was an "I guess you had to be there" kind of joke), but because I love that my husband wants to share the silly (and sometimes lame) things of life with me.

Ultimately, I realize that life is made up of a million little moments of which I have just experienced. I'm an expert in how to live fully in the profound moments of my life; I know what's expected of me in that regard. It's the small things; the little moments that I tend to brush aside and minimalize. Those are the moments that I need to cherish the most.

So Big!

Yesterday as Amelia was running from one end of the living room to the other in hasty pursuit of her stuffed dog, I saw something new in her; something I hadn't allowed myself to see before. My "baby" was no longer a baby at all, but a full-fledged, bona fide little girl.

When I think back to this time a year ago, I remember a quiet infant who couldn't sit up or feed herself. I remember my tidy house and 2 naps a day worth of free time. Now, at 16 months, she is independent and alive; she's found her voice and she knows how to use it. One of Amelia's new found joys is to remove all the pots and pans from the cupboard and bang on them with a wooden spoon. She loves to dance- with or without music, and when I say to her, "Do you want Mommy to read you a story?," she brings me Little Quack or The Touch Me Book and plops herself down on my lap. She also does a stunning rendition of "Head-Shoulder-Knees and Toes," though she generally leaves out the shoulders and knees part. My household is a noisy, toy-strewn, joyous mess. At least until 7pm when she goes to bed.

The baby days are a fading memory. While I miss certain things of her infancy, Amelia-the-toddler is pretty much the best thing since diet coke in a Styrofoam cup. She is a bright and innocent life and through her, I get to see the world as new all over again.

Planting Season

I have a hard time keeping exciting news to myself. Dave knows this about me and thus, when we decided to "wait" for a while to tell everyone we were pregnant with our second child, he knew it wouldn't take long for me to spill the beans. Subconciously, I thought Dave was out to ruin my fun; I wanted to shout it from the rooftops immediately. Miscarriage was something that happened to other people, not to me. I was a victim of my own reproductive arrogance.

Later that night, a friend who just happened to also be pregnant, just happened to call and I can't remember how we got on the topic, but of course it came up somehow and naturally I had to tell her. By the time I reached my seventh week, I had told a handful of friends (only the ones that asked, of course), a lady at Amelia's gym, the principal of my school, my sister, my mom, my brother and someone in the checkout line of the grocery store. And then I started bleeding.

To make a short story even shorter, I am no longer pregnant. It's funny; I haven't had any trouble keeping this to myself. I haven't been able to bring myself to call even the friends with whom I had originally shared I was pregnant. Though, I did see the lady at Amelia's gym on Saturday and when she asked me how I was feeling, I had to fess up. I think I have begun to develop some perspective on the situation, and with that perspective, a bit of a paradigm shift.

I think this whole thing has made me realize that I have an unhealthy confidence in my own ability to control any situation in my life. If I want a new shirt for work, I go to Old Navy and buy one. If I want another child, well, then by golly, of course I'm going to get what I want. While this is obviously a false analogy, in the past few days I have begun to see that I have a sense of entitlement that I'm not wholly comfortable with. The relative comfort I have enjoyed for the past few years has caused me to forget that this world we live in can be a brutal, unjust place. And this rediscovered epiphany reminded me of something else I had forgotten: grace. All the beauty of my life, every joy, each moment of happiness is a product of grace. Nothing is a promise or a guarantee. Therefore every blessing is just that, a blessing; a gift- not something I deserve.

Amelia, my very independant 15 month old, in a rare moment of submission, let me sing her to sleep last night as she nuzzled on my chest. That's my grace. That's the most tangible way I can think to describe it. I have always worried a lot about losing what I have; about my plans not going the way that I want them to; about letting an unforeseen tragedy destroy my faith. But, strangely, because of this hole in my heart, I have found some new hope in this not-at-all-new-philosophy. May it take root and grow.

The Fragrance of Suburbia

It was a glorious day. Saturday afternoon. No school for a week. On a walk with my daughter. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The air still maintained a mid-February chill, but it was tinged with a promise of warmer weather. You could smell it. Almost taste it. The aroma was pervasive throughout my short walk around our condominium complex. I liked it; it was clean and fresh, almost like perfume. It reminded me of the overwhelming fragrance of jasmine that accompanied springtime in my old neighborhood. But this definitely wasn't jasmine. Nor any other flower I had ever experienced. I chalked it up to some kind of scrub brush or lavender or other foreign plant indigenous to the hills surrounding our house.

On the walk back towards home, it dawned on me. It was Saturday in the suburbs: laundry day. What I smelled in the air that was not an exotic plant or the promise of spring. It was the aroma of laundry detergent, expelled from two hundred vents in two hundred garages, that saturated the neighborhood.

When Dave and I tell some of the older members of our congregation where we live, we often hear, "I used to hunt bobcats up in those hills" or "That whole area was all chicken farms in my day." I used to vehemently begrudge new developments and cookie-cutter houses and gated communities... until we moved here. Now, I am so thankful for our little postage stamp of property. However, I can't help but wonder what a Saturday afternoon walk in mid-February would have smelled like back then.

Legacy

Lately, when I look at my 14 month old daughter, Amelia, I wonder what kinds of contributions, besides her red hair, that I will make to the person that she will ultimately become. And then I think about the kind of things that have been handed down to me. This always reintroduces me to a web of gloomy, unresolved feelings about my own heritage. Though I am not a superstitious person, I have often viewed my own destiny through a rather fatalistic lense. I have personally struggled with the patterns of dysfunction and weakness and addiction that I have observed in my lineage, and sometimes wonder if it's a losing battle. I have tried desperately to believe that God will be the change-agent in this equation, but it never quite settled my heart. However, I am no longer the ending place in this lineage. For Amelia's sake (and my own), I have to find crests of strength in a sea of weakness. I have to embrace the strength I find and pass it on.

About a month ago I received a letter. The contents were in response to a request I had made for any sort of anecdotal or geneological information about my paternal grandmother. Because I have no contact with my father, I feel that I have lost any connection that I had to that part of myself. Receiving the letter was like finding a missing piece of a puzzle that had been lost under the couch for years and years. Much of the information I had known in part, but Susie, my dad's half-sister, filled in the blanks and reminded me that I belong to a different legacy.

I knew my grandmother, Ura Mae, was born in a small Texas town to poor, uneducated parents. I knew that she was one of thirteen children and that she used to play paper dolls under the dining room table because it was one of the only places that she could find to be alone. I also knew that she eventually married a total of three times, the first when she was sixteen, and had three children by three different men. I have seen the haunting pictures of Margie, her first child, who died of bone cancer at the age of twelve. And I have heard stories about her second husband, Mac, who was killed by the Japanese on Wake Island during World War II. I know that she was heartbroken when her only son abandoned his wife and children and that it would've crushed her to know that after she died, her two surviving children fought for years over her estate and eventually stopped speaking altogether. Her life was one of tragedy, heartbreak and despair.

But that's only half the story. My grandmother completed her high school education through correspondence in 1955 and in 1972, received a degree in English from San Diego State University. She designed and taught a course on conservatorship at the local junior college until just before she died in 1994. For several years, she was the Sunday school superintendent of her church and also served as president of volunteer organizations around the San Diego area. She was interested in social justice and rarely turned down a worthwhile cause. She kept her 4'10 frame in tip-top shape by exercising everyday in her garage, though she did enjoy a bowl of Heavenly Hash ice cream every night before bed. She loved her grandchildren so much that when her son proved financially and emotionally irresponsible, she provided all three of them with a college education. She possessed intelligence, tenacity and unimaginable strength.

That's the whole story, or at least for now, the one that I know to tell. And it's the story that I claim for my daughter. Someday, when I tell Amelia about her spunky great-grandmother, I will share the tragedy, only as it serves to illuminate the beauty of who she became. That legacy belongs to me, and now it belongs to Amelia. What she chooses to do with it is up to her.

Cure for the Winter Blues

O.K., so maybe the term "winter blues" means something a little different in San Diego than it does in, say, North Dakota, but everyone everywhere gets the blahs once in a while. Especially during this time of year in California when it is too warm to wear a sweater, but not warm enough for a tank top. Well, I think I may have found a remedy. On Saturday, I had my first legitimate haircut in over two years. And by "legitimate," I mean that it cost more than ten dollars and I wasn't left with hair that was longer on one side than the other. Yep, I splurged and got the real deal...It was a scalp-scrubbin', deep-conditioning, leave -with- a- free- bottle- of- hair-straightener good time. My hairdresser Kevin is a magician, I'm convinced. I sat down in his chair a frumpy, over-extended hausfrau and left the place feeling like a Pantene model, swinging my new coif from side to side and casting flirty glances at myself in full length mirrors. For anyone out there in need of an end of winter pick-me-up, I highly recommend a good haircut. It's amazing what a little snip-snip will do for the spirit.

They Love You, They Hate You, They Steal Your Laptop...

Today was just one of those days. I even said that to Dave this morning when Amelia, who is cutting her 1-year molars, woke up screaming at 4am. I said, "Today's going to be one of those days." I didn't know how right I was.

I could make a laundry list of all the little things that went wrong from the moment I woke up, but I have now forgotten what they are. It doesn't even matter anymore. I don't think those little things ever mattered, really. They were minor inconveniences; annoyances that continually distract me from the meat and potatoes of daily life. And they pale in comparison to what happened later.

3rd period, a group of boistrous and lively 9th graders, is a class I look forward to. I would venture to say that they are my favorite class. Besides the typical issues of excessive talking, trying to listen to their i-pod on the sly and general homework apathy, they are a fun group of kids who ask great questions and make me look good when I have principal observations. But today as they were filing out of the classroom, one of them lifted my school-issued laptop from off my desk and walked away with it.

I didn't see it; I was collecting classwork outside the door, waving good-bye and reminding them to finish A Samurai's Tale before Friday. Within minutes of returning inside, I realized it wasn't there. I searched high and low; in cupboards and under stacks of papers; I even looked in the ten-gallon trash can right outside my classroom. It was gone. On the way down to the office to report my loss, I thought of the three hours of grading that I had done on Sunday afternoon and the final exam on All Quiet on the Western Front that I had prepared for Friday. I could feel a lump pushing its way up my throat when I thought of the semester's worth of documents that I had not yet copied to my flash drive. At that moment, who took it and why didn't cross my mind. I just wanted it back.

By the end of the day, it was in my hands again. School security had printed off my class roster and interrogated one kid at a time until finally, they found my laptop in Frankie's backpack. Walking up to the office after school to find out what had happened, I began to feel sick to my stomach. My hands started to shake. Now that my laptop had been recovered, I began to think about what this meant for Frankie. I knew he had been arrested. According to the Sheriff, he will most likely be charged be with grand theft. He will definitely be expelled. He might even spend some time in Juvenile Hall. Frankie just turned fifteen.

Tomorrow I am going to talk to my 3rd period class about what things cost. My laptop cost $500; Frankie's decision cost him considerably more. The truth is, he probably didn't realize the full consequences of his actions, or maybe he did and he just didn't care. Either way, it rips my heart out. Most likely, I will never see Frankie again. For the rest of the semester, his empty desk will serve as a reminder that most of the time, we create our own obstacles; our poor choices lead to our own challenges and all of these things boil down to the overused, but indisputable truth that what we make of life is up to us.

Show Me Your Belly!

This morning Dave and I took Amelia to her baby gym class. Before I had a child of my own, I probably would have thought that the idea of taking a 13 month old to a gymnastics class was a bit silly. And I have to concede that maybe it is. Though there are obvious benefits such as gross motor skill development and socialization, I think a part of me is in this thing for selfish reasons. There aren't many things in this life that have brought me as much joy as watching half a dozen toddlers lifting up their shirts (the instructor incorporates the teaching of body parts into the lesson), all clamoring for the reward of having bubbles blown on their tummies. Amelia doesn't quite get the whole Pavlov-cause-and-effect-thing yet, but she was in bubble heaven nevertheless...and so was I.

Lunchtime Epiphanies

A few days before the semester ended last year, I was talking with one of my students about my impending departure from Orange County High School of the Arts to a job closer to home. I expressed a bit of my trepidation at leaving the kooky familiarity that defined my present position for a job at a large, public high school. Austin, in many ways, was the quintessential OCHSA student. He was intelligent, creative, eager to learn, cynical of the status quo, though equally empathetic and compassionate. And, most importantly, he laughed at my lame jokes. What would teaching be like without kids like Austin? Upon hearing my concern, Austin, wise beyond his fifteen years, shrugged and said, "Ah, Mrs. Burgess, don't worry about it. Kids are just kids wherever you are."

The new school year began at the large, public high school and as the first class began to file in, I thought of Austin's pearl of wisdom that I had carried with me all summer long. But as the kid with the mohawk strolled past, dropping the f-bomb and ignoring me entirely, it fell to the floor and began to roll under my desk. These were not the kids I had left behind. I spent most of the first semester either bemoaning my current predicament or waiting for "Austin" to show up. He never did.

Enter Tom. Tom's distinction in my own personal teaching hall of fame was that he was the first student I had ever had who managed to slug through the entire first semester without turning in a single homework assignment. Seriously, not one. Though he was bright, he didn't seem to care if he passed or failed. Everyday I would ask, "Tom, do you have your homework?" and everyday he would answer, "Nah, Mrs. Burgess, you know I don't do homework. Later on, I learned that Tom was in the foster care system, had a brother in prison for manslaughter and was, himself, on probation for burglary. I thought of Austin, who happened to be in the same grade as Tom, and the chasm between the two seemed so vast, I began to despair. How could I possibly reach this kid and others like him? I wasn't sure.

Winter break came and went and another semester descended with a few new faces and a fading memory of what had been. One day last week, Tom stopped by my classroom during lunch. The unexpectedness of his visit caught me off guard and I immediately abandoned my Ham n' Cheese Hot Pocket to see what was up. "Mrs. Burgess, I didn't do my homework," he announced with a smirk on his face. The day before I had assigned his class a 100 point project on World War I propaganda. In my mind, I thought, "News at Eleven: Tom did not do his homework... I gave up my Hot Pocket for this?" But Tom continued to stand there, now with an enormous grin on his face, so I kept my sarcasm in check. Finally, opening his backpack, he gloated, "Psych! I did it, Mrs. Burgess! Oh, snap, I got you good!" I was so proud of him that I almost cried. I think I probably jumped up and down. Embarassed by my outburst, Tom attempted to maintain his too-cool-for-school facade and replied, "It's not like I won the Nobel Peace award or nothing." No, Tom, not yet. But it is a small step in the right direction.

It was a small step for me, too. The lesson learned? Austin, the perfect student, was right when he said that" kids are just kids" in any school, in any city, in any state, or even in any country. They love you, they hate you, they push your buttons and make you want to crawl under the desk into the fetal position at the end of the day. But in the end, kids everywhere need approval and acceptance; they need to know that someone believes in them. They need to know that what they do or don't do matters to someone. Hopefully, one of those someones can be me. I still don't have a classroom full of Austins, but maybe that's not what I want anymore. Maybe I want a classroom full of Toms. Because the payoff, when there is one, if there is one, is exponentially greater.

Cheerio Mayhem

If you've ever had a one year old in your house then you know what I'm talking about. Two months ago, when Dave and I discovered their invaluable utility, I could have been a Cheerio spokeswoman. Suddenly, we could take her out to dinner and for an hour she would be utterly transfixed by the oat-flavored spheres. Cheerios brought tranquility to meal time. But the jig is up. She is on to us. Cheerios no longer appease her appetite or her curiosity. When Amelia sees me coming with the yellow box in my hand, she shakes her head from side to side as if to say, "you don't get it, do you? I'm over those things." Still, I get desperate. So, occasionally, I'll toss a few on her tray, just until I can get dinner ready. From across the room, I can see the look in her eye, the look that says, "oh yeah? I'll show you," as she daintily picks up one Cheerio at a time and drops them onto the floor. Tonight, as I write, Amelia is sleeping soundly in the next room and the dinner dishes are done; all is right with the world. Except for the sea of forsaken Cheerios that lay in waste on my kitchen floor.