My Real Life

I love to write. I love to write so much, sometimes, it’s hard to concentrate on other things because I have words rolling around in my brain that I want to get down on paper (or screen) as soon as possible.

But I have a very busy life, and often, that life makes it difficult to find the time to put the words down in any sort of understandable format, and so my writing? It falls by the wayside.

The birthday blogs for the kids? That comes easily, and I make the time for it because celebrating my babies is job numero uno, but other than that, you may have noticed that, over the years, the blog posts have been few and far between.

Sometimes, however, someone gives me a writing task.

Hey, Amy! I need an article about this topic. So, I sit and I write them. Heck, I wrote a ton of articles about oil tanks a few yeas ago and, believe it or not, I loved it.

Hey, Amy! I need help with this email. So, I think and compose and the email gets written.

Hey, Amy! I need help with this job application. And, I reorganize and rephrase and reword, and there it is.

But, all of that is me writing for someone else. About something else. And, while I truly do love it, (and would like to do more of it, so please, feel free to ask!), it’s not necessarily writing for me.

So, when a call went out for people to write about teachers and/or teaching, I jumped at the chance.

Because, I love writing, but you know what I love just as much?

Teaching.

So, I wrote.

And I submitted.

And guess what, friends?

My essay was chosen for a new anthology on teaching called “Will Work for Apples.”

Catchy title, right???

You may remember when I was one of the co-authors of “I Just Want to Pee Alone” a few years back?

And when Monkey Girl was published in the anthology “You Do You,” last year?

The amazing, Jen Mann, has done it again, and has brought together a variety of essays about teaching and teachers and it is going to be a wonderful tribute to the most noble profession, and I am beyond honored to be one of the contributors.

The book will be available in all formats and from all vendors (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iTunes, etc) at the end of April, so please, keep your eyes open so you can be the first to get your copy!

Writing is good stuff, my friends.

Writing about my passion?

Even better.

I’ve been putting off writing this particular blog post.

Because my girl is 18 today.

An adult.

But not an adult.

My baby.

My adult child.

I have approximately six months before she leaves for college.

I am so excited for her to start this new chapter in her life, but I cannot truly put into words how much I am going to miss her. 

She is everything I had hoped she would be.

Kind, happy, smart, loving.

I love her for who she was, and I love her for who she is. 

There’s too much I want to say, and for the first time, I am finding myself at a loss for words.

So, I’ll leave this video with you from April of 2010. 

It may seem strange to share a video that I am in to celebrate her, but it’s what I’ve got.

She and I were going to perform in the talent show, that year. But she got sick a few days before and we cancelled. But she wanted to do our act anyway.

Were we great? Nope.

But when I listen and know how that voice has transformed into something powerful and strong over the years, and when I look and know how that girl has turned into something even more powerful and strong?

Oh, my heart.

Skip to 1:27. That’s where the magic starts.

I love this child, and she continues to be as sweet today as she was in this video which makes me cry every time I watch it.

Because this eager, precious little girl is 18 today, and I couldn’t be prouder.

When you deal with teenagers all day and then come home to 3 of your own, you can sometimes forget that 7 is a tough age.

There are a lot of fears and feelings that come with being 7, and the world is very big and you are very small.

And today, this guy is 8.

This boy, at 8, is a love.

He is so many things wrapped into one, little boy.

He loves soccer and football and hockey.

He loves cars and wrestling and racing.

He loves unicorns and kittens and My Little Pony and books about fairy worlds.

He loves his sister and his brothers and his parents wildly and unabashedly.

He sings when he’s happy.

He never stops talking.

Like, ever.

Seriously.

Never.

8 isn’t much bigger than 7.

The world is still very big, and he is still very small.

But he’s figuring it out and he’s working through it and he knows he’s got all of us on his team for those times that figuring it out is just too much for a little guy.

We love him with all of our being.

And today, he’s 8.

15 today.

I thought I would have a really hard time with his turning 15. 

15 seems to be the age at which you are a real teenager.

At 13 and 14, a person is still newly minted as a teen. Still babies.

But 15? 

15 is in young man territory, and I’m no longer having a hard time with this, because he really is giving us a glimpse into what kind of man he is going to be, and so far, he’s someone I am so proud of.

He’s encountered many challenges this year, and he’s met them all head on. 

His time is encumbered with two hockey teams, which means up to eight practices a week, some weeks, and at least four games a week.

Yet, he loves the sport and he makes sure he gets his work done. We never have to pester, or even ask, really, if he’s finished his homework, because he always has.

He talks and emails teachers when there is a concern and doesn’t rely on us to advocate for him, although we would, in a heartbeat, if it was needed.

He saves the money he makes instead of spending it all immediately.

We can hear that deep voice shouting and laughing, joyfully, from the basement while he plays his PS4 (which he bought for himself) online with his friends.

And as much as he is turning into a man, he is still my little love.

He makes us laugh every single day. He consistently pulls practical jokes on Real Man and I, delivers dry, one-liners with the comedic timing of a pro, and is old enough to understand the humor that we enjoy.

His heart is so big and he loves us all passionately, even if the words don’t always leave his mouth.

He is six feet of awesome.

He’s 15 today. And I’m okay with that.

This baby. This little, tiny child. He’s 13 today.

This one, my third of four, is his own man. 

He’s quiet. So quiet. He could easily slip through the cracks because he doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t demand attention.

As a baby, for a few month period, he cried for hours, starting at 10 pm on the nose. 

We would have to walk-bounce him in this weird inverted v-deep knee bend to keep the noise at bay, and still, he would persist.

I like to think he got it all out of his system in those early years because now he is the most low-maintenance child I’ve ever seen.

But we see him.  We know him. 

I have never met someone who truly doesn’t care about what people think of them, but this one? He doesn’t.

He’s private, introspective, and quiet. 

But if you know him? If he has let you in? 

Hysterical.

He’s fiercely creative.

He’s in a constant state of creation. He makes cardboard boxes into castles, turns pvc pipe into light sabers, and can do just about anything with a roll of duct tape.

He is endlessly patient and kind with his little brother, despite just how “extra” Tiny can be with him.

He loves his big brother and sister and cherishes any time he gets to spend with them, even if it’s time doing a whole lotta nothing.

He is a love to Real Man and I, and will do whatever we ask him to do, even if he is right in the middle of something.

He’s 13 today, and I can’t believe it, because he was always my baby. Even Tiny’s birth couldn’t erase the five years when this guy was the youngest. 

I’m so excited to see what he winds up doing with his life. I don’t really care what it is. I just hope that it makes him happy. 

Because this kid?

He brings me such joy.

A big storm was brewing for this weekend.

At one point, they were predicting 10-13 inches.

My original plan, this weekend, was to be in the city with Kim, Erin, and Michaela, celebrating my birthday at Sleep No More NYC.

Then the weather reports started rolling in and those of us who lived outside of the city started getting nervous. If they shut down mass transit, would be we able to get home? Would we have to pull over and sleep in our car on the way from the train stations home?

For people that needed to be home on Sunday night, it just was a little risky given the forecast.

So, we sold the tickets and cancelled our plans.

Not happily, but things happen.

So, I shifted my brain and started looking forward to a weekend snuggled in with Monkey Girl, Baby Monkey and Tiny, as Real Man and Monkey in the Middle were going to be out of town for a hockey tournament.

Snowed in with most of my babies, board games, fire in the fireplace, books, movies.

Okay, yes. I was starting to look forward to this.

So, Saturday rolled around and I went to work for a few hours, with the stage crew for our school musical. When we finished, Baby Monkey and I went to the store to pick up Smartfood.

You know, the cheesy popcorn?

It’s what he decided he wanted to have in the house to ride out the storm.

No problem, little guy. Smartfood we can do.

When we got to the store, we headed immediately to the popcorn aisle. But, when we got there, Baby Monkey decided that he was more in the mood for microwave popcorn, Extra Butter flavor.

I wasn’t quite as on board with that, but, eh, it’s a storm. Why not?

So, we grab that.

Then Baby Monkey says “Actually, can we also get some more grapes?”

If the kids ask for fruits or vegetables, it’s an automatic yes, so we moved to the produce aisle.

He grabbed the grapes, and then as we walked, I saw a container of snap peas.

I love snap peas.

Baby Monkey is allergic, but man do I love them.

So, I grabbed those, too.

Suddenly, I remembered we needed batteries, and the batteries were all the way across the store, so Baby Monkey and I started to make our way there.

And on the way, we passed the cookie aisle.

I keep seeing ads for the new “Oreo: The Most Stuf” and have been wanting to try them out.

They didn’t have those, but they did have Double Stuf, so I picked up a package of those, too.

By now, Baby Monkey and I had too much to carry and I wasn’t sure where we would find the batteries, so I sent him to the parking lot to get a cart.

And I kept walking.

And, oh, there was some hot apple cider in K-cups!

See, my vision of us all snuggled in front of the fire included a lot of food and hot beverages.

Despite my Danish roots, there’s an Italian grandmother in me somewhere, and I show love by trying to feed people.

I grabbed the K-cups, and then saw the Spaghettios.

Yeah, we need those for a snowstorm.

Ooh, and soup. We needed soup. Definitely soup.

And look what’s next to the soup!

It’s the crackers! Triscuits. Soup and Triscuits for a storm. Yes.

Oh, and you know what’s so good after playing the snow?

Peanut butter and jelly on toast.

But, I couldn’t remember if we had enough peanut butter or jelly in the house.

Or bread, for that matter.

Luckily, at this point, Baby Monkey had come back with a cart, which was a good thing because I couldn’t carry another thing.

Or, maybe it wasn’t a good thing.

Because I then laid eyes on the Pepperoni Pizza rolls.

Oh, how I love thee Totino’s Pizza Rolls.

To make a long story short, I checked out 30 minutes and $145 later.

I always roll my eyes at people who go crazy at the whisper of snow.

The Facebook memes of empty shelves before an impending storm make me laugh out loud.

Yet, I fell prey to the madness more easily than I would have imagined.

Now, I wasn’t panicking, thinking we’d starve without bread, milk and eggs.

But I certainly went overboard in the anticipation.

This post may seem like a contrast to my minimalism post, but, I know that everything I bought will be eaten.

Maybe not this weekend, but mark my words, it will be eaten.

Just don’t be surprised if Tiny winds up taking a frozen burrito to school for a snack next week.

 

Okay, this post isn’t actually about Genesis, or this amazing song, but once I came up with the title, the song popped into my head and I couldn’t shake it.

And now you can’t either.

You’re welcome.

A result of my Netflix addiction is that I recently binge-watched Marie Kondo’s “Tidying Up” and then watched the documentary “Minimalism.”

I’ve always been a purger of things.

I dabbled with professional organizing and was just about to get certified when I had baby number 3.

Number four?

At this point, who knows, but it didn’t work out.

My favorite show on TLC was always “Clean Sweep” and then “Clean House” which was on the Style network.

I love organizing.

Now, I’m way better at organizing other people’s things than my own, but I keep my stuff in order.

Having four kids in the house does not really make it easy to keep this place neat and tidy, and I’m okay with that.

I don’t want to have a room in my house where no one is allowed to live.

But I also don’t want clutter.

So, I’m the purger and organizer in my family, even though it makes me bananas, sometimes.

As I watched “Tidying Up,” I emptied my nightstand and cleared it off. Tossed the junk, put things that didn’t belong there where they actually belonged, and then put it back together neatly and cleanly.

The next weekend, I went to Monkey Girl’s room.

She’s been talking about wanting to do a pre-college purge so that when she is leaving for college she doesn’t have to go through years’ worth of belongings to decide what to bring.

So, I brought a grocery bag to her room and said “Let’s toss 25 things.”

I figured, a little at a time and we could get it done.

Five hours later, we had filled three large, lawn-sized trash bags with old notebooks, stained and ripped clothes, wrappers, and all kinds of other things that had accumulated for the past few years.

We also had two large, lawn-sized trash bags full of clothes that we immediately put in a car and dropped at a donation bin.

It’s been awhile since we went through her stuff.

Now her room is neat, clean, organized, and even she said that she just feels like it’s easier to do everything because she doesn’t have to hunt for anything anymore.

Then, last weekend, I watched Minimalism.

I found it to be more about consumerism than minimalism, but it really spoke to me.

I have always said that I would love to live in a tiny house.

I could use the library for my books, my phone for my music, my computer for my writing.

I’d be set.

I truly don’t need stuff.

But I do have stuff.

Because I live in a house with five other people and in this house, there is space, and people seem to always need to fill space.

I’d be so fine with some unfilled space.

One of my favorite pictures in the world is this one:

It’s a picture of Monkey Girl and Tiny, a few months after we moved into this house.

We had quite a few rooms that were empty because our other houses didn’t have the rooms that this one has.

So, this was what was to become our dining room.

It’s my favorite picture because of the people in it, obviously, and the moment that I captured without either of them knowing.

But that room is now full.

It has a dining room table that seats 8, a china cabinet and a sideboard.

You can’t move around in that room.

And it’s functional and we use it frequently and I’m not saying that I wish we didn’t furnish it the way we did.

But look at that picture.

Think about the dreaming and thinking and twirling that could go on in that room.

There’s nothing to clean, nothing to break, nothing to have to deal with.

This year, I’m trying to have less.

Sounds weird to even write it.

But I have way more than I need, and this year I’m going to be paring down.

Except for my books. We aren’t discussing my books.

But everywhere else, things are going to go.

Because I don’t need it.

I have what I need and who I need and the rest can go to people who need it more than I do.

So, no, I’m not taking a cue from Phil and the gang and throwing it all away, but I am going to start to whittle away at the excess.

I’d rather spend my money on experiences and only bring in the things that will truly bring me joy.

Because if it doesn’t make me happy, why bring it here at all?

We have a saying in our house.

“Don’t yuck my yum.”

We use it when someone starts saying something nasty about something we like.

Kid 1: Ooh! I love X!

Kid 2: Ew! That’s so gross.

KId 1: Hey, you don’t have to like it, but don’t yuck my yum.

We didn’t make it up. One of us must have heard it somewhere. But, it works for us.

I mean, it’s no magic cure-all. There are still WWF quality wrestling matches, slammed doors, and “He won’t quit touching me!” at our house, but this phrase has helped my babies understand that you can not like something that someone else likes without trying to make the other person feel bad for liking it AND without saying anything bad about the other person.

And although “yum” is usually a word that is associated with food, it’s not a phrase that we use in only that way.

We use it for everything.

I think we need a little more “don’t yuck my yum” in the world.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

We. Don’t. All. Have. To. Like. The. Same. Things.

This applies to so very many things.

It applies to food.

Kale is the best thing that has ever been grown on this Earth. Kale is the most disgusting thing that has ever been grown on this earth.

It applies to books.

People were ready to go all Hunger Games on whether or not they enjoyed the Divergent series.

It applies to movies.

Geez. For awhile there, I thought Facebook was going to break with the people arguing over whether “Birdbox” was a good movie or total crap.

(I’m somewhere in the middle on that one.)

No, we don’t have to agree on everything.

But, the danger comes when we start to personalize the differences in preferences.

When the kid who brings kale in their lunchbox is told that he is disgusting instead of the food getting the insult.

When people who love the Divergent series are told they aren’t serious readers.

Last week, Kim Bongiorno, who writes the blog, Let Me Start By Saying, authored a post where she was comically contrasting her love of books, and her subsequent difficulty in parting with books, with Marie Kondo’s philosophy that you only need to own and keep a few books, total.

It was, as is everything Kim writes, humorous and on point. She made herself the butt of the joke, while not saying anything negative about Marie. It was her own inability to part with her books that was the punchline, and, wow, did I identify with what she said and it made me laugh.

Most people got the joke and played along.

But then the inability to understand Marie’s point of view of books as clutter reared its ugly head and commenters began to make ugly statements about Marie Kondo, herself.

Kim removed the post.

Yucking someone’s yum is everywhere.

And, of course, it applies to politics.

Because, these days, everything applies to politics.

I’m a History teacher, and in my class, we discuss current events every day.

Always have.

There are two schools of thought on discussing politics in a classroom.

One is, never tell the kids where you stand on the issues.

That’s not the school that I subscribe to.

I share my opinions with my students, yet, I tell them, up front, that anything I share isn’t with the goal of changing their minds.

I share my opinions with them so that they will share their opinions with me, and so when we disagree, I can model for them how to disagree with someone respectfully.

And they do it beautifully.

My classrooms are beautifully and radically diverse and we tackle the tough stuff.

I have students who are staunchly anti-immigration having conversations with students who have just arrived from another country, asking questions about their experiences and why they came here, as well as answering questions about why they feel a wall will solve some problems in this country.

I’ve heard students on both sides of every issue say things like “I never thought of it that way before.”

Because they hear me say it to them.

And while, at the end of the class, no one has changed their mind about anything, everyone has learned a little something that they hadn’t really considered before.

Sometimes the “why” someone feels a certain way about something is just as important as what they feel.

I’m not saying we need to be Kumbaya about everything.

We all have non-negotiables.

We all have things where we say “This is absolutely not okay with me, no matter what you have to say about it.”

And that’s okay, too.

But we never get anywhere when we put our hands over our ears and yell “Nah nah nah…I can’t hear you!” when what someone is saying makes us uncomfortable.

Listen to each other.

You don’t have to agree. You can even staunchly disagree.

But listen.

Because the more we refuse to listen, the more divided we become and the harder it will be for us to ever get to a place where we can find the small similarities between us and eventually find compromise.

 

 

I believe I have documented the fact that this family, well, this family minus Real Man, are big fans of Dr. Who.

We started watching the show a few years ago and we quickly binged every episode from it’s 2005 reboot with Christopher Ecclestone.

It’s quirky and humorous and touching and we have just always loved it.

Especially episodes with the Daleks.

Am I right?

We fell in love with Ecclestone’s doctor and were sure we would never enjoy the show the same way when he left and David Tennant showed up, but it turned out that we loved Tennant even more.

Then when Tennant left and Matt Smith arrived as the new doctor, we said there was no way he was going to be able to fill those shoes. And yet…

Matt Smith and Karen Gillian were the absolute best. The best.

When Matt Smith left and Peter Capaldi came in, we truly did not love the show as much as we had with the other doctors, but the storylines still captivated us and we remained true fans of the show, even if we weren’t huge fans of the new doctor, himself.

And then Peter Capaldi left and we had our first female doctor, Jodie Whittaker.

We weren’t sure how we were going to feel about Whittaker’s take on the doctor, but we were willing to give it a try, as we had been proven wrong before.

The week before the premiere, BBCAmerica had a Dr. Who marathon where they showed every episode of the David Tennant and Matt Smith years and we went through and recorded all of our favorites and spent hours reliving those moments.

It was a good week. The three big kids and I joined together in the living room to watch those episodes and remembered little phrases that we used to repeat to each other and small moments in episodes that we have talked about throughout the years.

And then we gathered to watch the premiere of the new season.

This season is a really new season, as the entire writing team changed.

And, this is a new season, might I add, that unveiled the first female doctor…EVER.

That’s a big deal.

People have an image of who the doctor is and what HE should be.

Except now HE is going to be a SHE and that excites me for little girls everywhere.

And then we watched the show.

Eh.

We are now six episodes in and I gotta tell ya…we still aren’t loving it.

I don’t think that there is necessarily an issue with Jodie Whittaker, herself.

She’s quite delightful.

I think it’s the storytelling.

It’s slower than we are used to. There’s not much action. They aren’t really traveling much.

And, if you are a Dr. Who fan, you know that one of the best parts of the show is the banter between the doctor and his/her companions.

It’s quick, it’s funny, it’s engaging.

And from this season of the show…

It’s lacking.

There’s no humor and the storylines are slow and serious and just not…getting it.

I almost didn’t write this post because I’m not into complaining and publicly bashing things and people.

But this isn’t a bash. It’s more of a “c’mon new writers…lighten up” request.

Because, you know, I’ve just got a ton of screenwriters who actually read this blog.

It’s hard when things change. When things you are used to morph into something new.
And it’s early, yet. It’s still possible that the show could hit it’s stride and suck us right back into our Dr. Who obsession.

But right now?

Not so much.

 

Yesterday, we had to say goodbye to Gramps, our hermit crab.

Gramps’ buddy, Shelly, lost his (or her…we were never really sure) battle with life in the crabitat a few months after we purchased them in August 2017, and Gramps has been going it solo since then.

We don’t have pets.

Instead, we have four kids.

So we’ve never had to flush a goldfish or put a dog to sleep, etc.

Our children have never had a close relative die or even a close family friend, and so they haven’t really ever had to deal with death beyond when their character in a video game dies.

Which, of course, then respawns, so even that isn’t real experience with death and totally messes with a child’s expectations of what happens when a person dies.

So, yesterday, Real Man catches my eye in the kitchen and gestures toward the crabitat where I see Gramps’ shell turned upside down, his dry little legs extended over the edge, unmoving and completely dead.

My first thought was “Oh crap…I forgot to spray down the crabitat with moisture last weekend. I killed him,” because, (and this will come as no surprise to the moms in the group) despite the fact that he’s the kid’s pet, the responsibility for keeping him alive falls on MY shoulders.

But then I remembered that I certainly had taken care of Gramps last weekend, and that a year and a half is a pretty good life for a hermit crab living in a plastic cage in northern New Jersey.

Real Man and I took the shell out of the crabitat and put it on the counter. We touched the legs to make sure they were really not moving, and they weren’t. We talked about what to do and we decided we would flush the body and clean out the shell to either add to the shell collection in the bathroom or in case we ever got more hermit crabs.

Real Man had a paper towel and pulled on the legs and they separated from the shell and from the remainder of the body. The big claw and legs were now in the paper towel and the other big claw and legs were still in the shell. We’d have to dig it out.

But, right then is when Tiny came into the kitchen and asked what we were doing.

So, we told him Gramps had died and he cried and cried.

I took him to the living room where we sat on the couch and reminisced about the good times we had with Gramps.

“Remember when we made Gramps and obstacle course out of blocks?”

“Remember when Shelly used to try to climb out of the crabitat by standing on Gramps’ shell?”

“Remember when we used to make funny voices for Gramps and Shelly and make up fake conversations for them?”

(All of which happened about a year ago, because it’s a hermit crab, which is not a fun pet, and which the kids really never paid attention to after a few months)

I told Tiny that Gramps was probably happy to be reunited with Shelly in hermit crab heaven which he quickly refuted with “Shelly isn’t in heaven…she’s in the sewer…you flushed her!” which was a point I found myself unable to argue.

As I comforted Tiny, Real Man poked his head around the corner and gestured for me to come back in the kitchen with big eyes.

I left Tiny in the capable hands of his brother who was reminding him of other fun times with Gramps (“Remember when Mom was cleaning Gramps crabitat and put him on the counter and forgot about him and we found him in the laundry room the next day?”) and went to the kitchen.

“So,” Real Man began, “I don’t think he’s dead.”

“Excuse me?” I answered. “You just pulled half of his body out of the shell!”

“Yeah…but…” and he held up his phone and showed me an article he had Googled about how sometimes hermit crabs molt their old legs off and grow new legs underneath.

And he picked up the shell and showed me what we had thought were other legs but weren’t, in fact, fresh, new, pink legs.

Which were moving.

Are. You. Kidding. Me?

I immediately cleaned out the crabitat and refilled the water and the food and we set Gramps right in the water dish and he started to rock and roll.

And I was so excited, there were tears of joy in my eyes.

They definitely were not tears of I had already imagined the counter where the crabitat sat being clear, for once, and the freedom of not having to remember to feed and water that thing every weekend.

Definitely not those kind of tears.

And we went in the living room and said “So, guess what, Tiny? Gramps isn’t dead after all!” and we explained the whole thing and so now Tiny thinks life is like a video game where, if your legs get cut off, they’ll grow back and if you die, you might not really be dead…the doctor might have just made a mistake and so death isn’t really a permanent thing, despite our very thorough explanations that we just got it wrong the first time.

So, yeah.

Thanks, Gramps.